Torr Badon
by wryter501
Summary: "A vision, Merlin Emrys, to pass on to your king. War, here in the White Mountains... the red-and-gold emblem of Camelot... the white dragon spewing fire over the battlefield." Ten years of relative peace may be coming to an end... all prophecy must be fulfilled, sooner or later. Sequel to Vortigern's Tower and The Towers of Lionys. Canon pairings, no slash.
1. After a Decade

**Torr Badon**

**Chapter 1: After a Decade**

Merlin considered using magic to achieve his goal.

On one hand, the argument could be made that it would hasten his return to Camelot. He'd already been gone twice as long as anticipated, and while it didn't make his magic itch to be separated from his king as it would have when they were young, there was the constant awareness in the back of his mind that he didn't _know_.

On the other hand… it was only breakfast.

He crouched on his heels a short distance from his campfire, the ashy smear on the ring of stones a silent testament to the length of his stay, holding his arms around his chest against the early-morning chill of the first month of spring. He wasn't the first one in camp to begin preparations for the day, but most fire-pits were still cold, most tent flaps still tied shut. That he could see from here, anyway.

_A watched pot never boils_, he heard his mother's voice echo in his mind – and especially if it's got grain-cereal mixed in. Times like these, he sympathized with Arthur's penchant for sausages, first thing.

Perhaps if he focused on something else. But everything was already packed that could be, waiting with his mare, everything that wasn't needed for one last assessment of his patients, this morning before he said his farewells. The last few lines of summary for the records could be made when he was home. Any deeper study into the cause of the disease – and he knew he'd be doing that too, as soon as it was possible – had to wait for the opportunity of hours-long solitude and quiet.

Merlin reached to stir the thickening paste in his small pot, and movement from behind a tree maybe five yards past his fire, caught his attention.

He sat back, pretending not to notice, and after a moment a tangle of brown hair, smudged skin, and curious eyes edged into view.

The druid children were a funny mix. The older ones, who'd grown up hearing the stories – Pendragon and Emrys, prophecy and adventure – were shyly awestruck. The youngest ones, who'd no doubt been scolded by their mothers not to bother Emrys, blinked and hid from him also. The ones in-between, though… they'd watched for a few wary days before deciding that if he slept in a tent and ate right out of the pot and yelped at the temperature of the wash-water, he was just a person like everyone else. They'd teased and helped and asked questions and gotten in his way and listened and watched and learned and before too long, any lingering self-consciousness had faded from the adults' treatment of him as well.

This little one seemed determined to show nothing but face, and fingertips on the rough bark of the tree.

Merlin grinned, leaned forward, and blew in an exaggerated fashion on the coals under his cook-pot, puffing out his cheeks.

Tiny sparks blew, coalesced, and formed – a dragon that would fit on the palm of one's hand, if one didn't mind the burn. It crept delicately from the coals, unfurling glowing orange wings.

The child ventured to show half his body, brown eyes riveted to the tiny magic-creature.

Fanning wings of exquisite flame, the dragon launched itself up to soar – more slowly than its more corporal cousin could manage – in a wide arc around the clearing. Merlin made a show of ducking when it passed him, and the child giggled, daring a few steps closer.

He directed the tiny spark-figure land on the rim of his pot, dip the miniscule serpentine neck, walk a few paces, and investigate again, as if it were hungry and curious, both. The child walked three more steps, almost as close to the fire now as Merlin was, on the opposite side, fascinated by the magic.

And the tiny flame-dragon sneezed. Inaudibly but very obviously, even to the sparks ejected from its mouth.

"It must be the spice," Merlin said gravely. "I suppose I've put too much in."

The child giggled delightedly, clapping his hands.

A voice spoke from behind Merlin. "Still playing with your food?"

He didn't turn, though the child took exception to the company and scampered off; Merlin let the dragon dissipate and rise in a shimmer of heat. The voice was familiar, and the implications and friendly tone of the remark made him reasonably sure he knew the man's name, though it had been years, and both of them boys, since they'd seen each other. He let his smile spread.

"You can share it if you like," he said. "I'm not going to eat it all."

"Your mother's not here to scold me, is she?" the other returned, stepping over the log Merlin perched on, to straddle the end of it facing him, tucking his cloak around him with practiced ease. "I think she thought it was partly my fault, how skinny you were."

"I'm still skinny," Merlin said, grinning at his childhood friend.

Brown hair cropped short, chest filled out – belly filled out a bit more but only noticeable since Merlin was more accustomed to seeing the knights' fighting-fit physiques – eyes still round but with an owlish look of quiet wisdom and experience.

"But it looks like you've found someone's cooking that suits you." Merlin reached out his hand. "Hello, Gilli."

"Good to see you," Gilli responded, the solemnity of his face breaking into a slow smile. He dropped a bulging pack to the ground by their feet as he shook Merlin's hand.

"Ah," Merlin couldn't help saying, feeling the tingle of magic, and turning his friend's hand instinctively to see the large flat-topped ring on the third finger. "Sorry – curious."

"It's all right," Gilli said with a smile, slipping the piece off easily to hand to him for a closer look. "I'm not surprised you noticed."

"That's the mark of the Old Religion," Merlin noticed, tracing the rune inscribed on the ring. It was the rune for _fustrendel_. Focus. Such rings, he knew, were rare – he'd heard of them but had never seen one – they acted as a conduit, a channel for magical powers. "Where did you get it from?"

Gilli accepted it back and slid his finger slowly through the ring before answering. "My father. He left it me when he died."

"I'm sorry to hear," Merlin said. He didn't recall Gilli's father well – when they spent time together in camp as boys, it was before Hunith's fire, not with Gilli's family. But considerable gifts were required to wield such a ring as that; he supposed that each of them had things to learn about their fathers, the last time they spoke.

"It's been many years," Gilli said easily. "It was a fine gift, though – without it I would not have had the magic or the control necessary to find my position among our people… And the girl whose cooking suits me just fine. They told you I joined Ruadan's clan?"

"Yeah, Iseldir said." Merlin poked his breakfast again, giving a quick wider glance to the early-morning activity of the rest of the camp.

"We're ranging on the edges of Mercia, north of the mountains of Isgaard, now," Gilli went on. "I married his daughter Sefa five years ago." Merlin remembered her distantly, an impression of a kind, shy smile – mostly because of what he'd been involved in with her father, afterwards.

"Mercia, huh." Bayard was still king; he kept his four – or five? – sons jockeying for the title of crown prince. Merlin left it to Arthur to keep track of which one was in favor, any given month.

Gilli answered obliquely, mistaking the point of Merlin's interest – perhaps by design, perhaps not. "Yep. Five years, and a babe for every year."

Merlin gave his old friend a glance at once skeptical and congratulatory, and reached with a stick to snag the handle of his little breakfast pot, pulling it from the edge of the coals. "Here, share with me."

Gilli put a hand into the mouth of his sack and pulled out a wooden spoon. "She loves it," he went on, happily wistful. "Loves the kids… loves carrying them…" He shifted on the log and his grin took on an unexpected maturity. "Loves making them…"

Merlin coughed a laugh, narrowly saving his own spoonful of porridge from spattering in the dust.

"What about you?" Gilli said, shrugging one rounded shoulder to where the child had been spying on Merlin when he arrived. He lifted his own spoonful to test the temperature, and added, "Do you have any children?" before gingerly taking the bite.

"Yes," Merlin said, feeling the same smile spread that he always wore when talking about his family. "My wife is an herbalist from Lionys. We met ten years ago – when King Arthur was supposed to find a bride, if you heard that story – we've been married now eight years. Our daughter will be seven next month."

"Just the one?" Gilli said, his attention focused on shoveling porridge into his mouth.

"Did you just get in?" Merlin asked, sliding his boot toward Gilli's pack.

"No – last night, but it was late. And I'm not staying." He paused for as long as it took to take, chew, and swallow two bites. "They said you were asleep – I guess it's been a rough couple of weeks."

Merlin snorted his affirmative. His return to Camelot was not so vital or urgent that he couldn't take an hour or so to catch up with his friend – but there was more to it than that. He had the feeling Gilli had come to the camp to see _him_. And that it was important.

"The healer for our clan took me as apprentice, when I transferred," Gilli went on. "He's been… vague, this past year, so mostly it falls to me. I'm nothing special, sometimes the magic's a bit rough, if that's what's needed, but we get along."

Trying to figure out if the reason for Gilli's trip was the same reason he himself was in the druid camp, Merlin said, "If you came because you heard – Gilli, I'm sorry if you expected –"

"No, no, nothing like that." Gilli blinked at him, unperturbed. "If Iseldir decided this illness needed Emrys, who am I to try my rough skill? No. I just – well, who would have thought it, when we were young? That you and I would both grow up to practice the healing arts?"

"Not Ari, that's for sure," Merlin quipped, remembering the tiny symbol for basic healing magic included in the tattoo on his left forearm. He gestured his willingness for the other man to finish the breakfast. "They're on the mend here, now – no new cases this week, and the last one turned a corner to the road to recovery day before yesterday."

Gilli nodded, chewing and swallowing placidly. "I saw you're all packed up this morning. Back to Camelot, then?"

"Yes."

The solution, the remedy, the cure, was only half the job. He still didn't know what had caused the outbreak, and when it was magical in nature – the strongest ones were the hardest hit; that connection was what prompted Iseldir's call for his help a month ago – it couldn't be left an unexplained mystery. He just wished Gaius…

"You don't mind having company for the road, do you?" Gilli's glance was round-eyed, unblinking. "At least a few miles?"

Merlin didn't have to say, _you mean you_? And didn't bother questioning him more closely; he'd caught his friends' disinclination to discuss. Merlin's tent was on the edge of the camp, but they weren't alone, by any means, even out of earshot. And druids – even children, maybe especially children, sometimes – were notorious for moving quietly in the woods. Whatever he had to say, he didn't want to chance being overheard.

"Come and welcome," Merlin said, scooping a handful of leaves for a quick scrub of the inside of the pot, then pushing upright to attach it to one of the strings on the saddle of the mare that waited, readied to go before Merlin's breakfast was.

Gilli shouldered his own pack, and passed his fingers gently over the brand on the mare's hip marking her a member of the royal stable of Camelot, without comment.

"Iseldir knows?" Merlin said. About whatever had prompted Gilli's visit.

"I talked to him a bit last night," Gilli said. A simple, but comprehensive answer.

Merlin loosened the mare's lead. "Let's find him to say goodbye, then."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur eyed the eager youth before him, scratching gloved fingers through the short beard he wore on chin and jaw.

"You know Merlin will make my life hell if anything happens to you, don't you," he remarked. "Sir Bodiver."

Bodiver said nothing, but his eyebrows shot up hopefully. Because Arthur hadn't said _no_.

Wind gusted between the men standing in counsel, past them up the bare hill that separated them from the bandits who were their quarry. Who outnumbered them – which was their advantage – and who didn't yet know the knights were there.

Which was Arthur's advantage. He needed to lure them into an ambush, where surprise would overwhelm numbers. And in a place where more men would be a _dis_advantage, and Arthur could take them with a minimum of bloodshed.

"I think the plan is sound, sire," Gwaine put in from Arthur's right.

"It was your plan, Gwaine," Arthur said, allowing the edge in his voice to be amused and disapproving at once. "Of course you think it's sound."

"My plan," Gwaine said innocently, ready to protest.

"I saw you." Arthur sighed, rubbing his forehead on the fine black leather of his riding glove, over the first knuckle of his fist. "This morning, before breakfast. The foot races."

Gwaine grinned, unrepentant. "It's still a good plan. This boy runs like the wind."

"Sire, if –" Bodiver's interjection was hesitant – "if anything goes wrong… There's always your standing orders to fall back on."

Standing orders, for Bodiver, were unique. And the reason Merlin would give him hell if anything happened to the new knight.

There were a few who'd earned the title and rank of a knight of Camelot, who were also capable of magic; another innovation of Arthur's that his father would not have approved of. Knighting commoners, treason – knighting magic-users, sacrilege.

Bodiver's talent, the one which placed him at Arthur's side in Merlin's absence, was the single capability of long-range mental communication. From one end of the kingdom to the other – they knew because they'd tested it – he could hear Merlin, and Merlin could hear him. Arthur's call for help, if Merlin's magic was needed and he wasn't there.

Mostly, Arthur claimed, for his friend's peace of mind. Because Arthur could take care of himself – and the knights who accompanied him everywhere outside the citadel could take care of everything else.

Once, they'd used it. Correction, _Bodiver_ had used it. A lunatic sorcerer had surprised them in an outlying village on a boring mid-summer tour of the peaceful border to the southwest. So boring and so hot they'd dispensed with chainmail. The sorcerer had not posed – Arthur still maintained – an insurmountable threat, but simply an intriguing tactical puzzle to solve. But a series of fireballs – tiny but fast, and not to be taken lightly in a dry summer and a peasant village – had driven Bodiver and Arthur apart. And when the young knight realized he could neither see nor hear the king, he'd called for help.

Merlin. Always willing to help so freely – and yet, so many asked. It made Arthur pause, often, to think, before he asked. Made sure, in the time they spent in each other's company, that he was offering Merlin as much support and encouragement and advice in his struggles – medical, magical, whatever – as Merlin always gave him.

"Standing orders," he repeated to the freckle-faced young man. "This time, be sure I'm in significant danger before you call Merlin. A clan of sick druids is more important than an out-of-sight warrior."

"Sire," Bodiver said, giving him a wide grin.

"The ravine down there?" Arthur added to Gwaine, who followed his gaze with a cursory confirmation.

"Tristan's down there scouting ground now," he said.

Arthur nodded, eyeing the terrain again. It was a good plan. "Sir Bodiver, give us half of an hour to set the trap. Then you bait it."

"My lord." Bodiver twitched halfway through turning to obey. "Ah – is the loss of the horse acceptable?"

"Take Tristan's," Gwaine suggested, turning slightly into the wind so his longish hair would not obscure his vision. "The oldest one we've brought, and he's been complaining about its temper this whole trip."

"Very well." Arthur nodded to the youngest knight, who bowed again before departing.

"_Such_ respect from the youngsters," Gwaine said humorously; Arthur snorted. "Just think how bad it would be if you did something to actually _deserve_ it."

"Too bad you'll never experience it," Arthur shot back.

"Thank the gods." Impish grin.

"Let's go." They understood each other well enough not to waste time they didn't have with verbal sparring.

He double-checked his gear, glanced to the handler and picket-line of their waiting mounts, then started off slantwise, up the side of the hill toward the ravine gashed between this hill and the next. Behind him, he heard Gwaine start up a lively but low-voiced argument with Ecter about whether or not Bodiver's training with Merlin should have produced more or less respect for Arthur than the other new knights.

It was windy, and overcast. A raw early spring morning. Tiny pale yellow primroses shivered among the faintly-green-tinted tall-grass of the bare hills.

If he was leading twenty men to steal and burn – well, if he was leading twenty men with an honorable mission – he'd have scouts ranging on high ground on either flank, a front- and rear-guard. This bandit leader obviously felt comfortable enough in the strength of his numbers and proximity to a hostile border to dispense with such precautions.

All three envoys Arthur had sent to King Caerleon in the southeast, ruling a kingdom between Lord Lionel's small province and the territory still controlled by Cenred further north, had been denied entrance at the border, firmly but fairly. Once as prince regent, twice as king after Uther had passed in his sleep, nearly nine years ago; you couldn't treat with a king who refused to listen. They patrolled the border, but any incursion at all would constitute an act of war – and Caerleon was a man who relished conflict, by all accounts.

Tristan met them at the edge of the hill. One minute he wasn't there, the next he was. Arthur noticed he'd left his scarlet cloak with the horses; they all had. Great for full frontal assaults and cavalry charges, impressive for show and intimidating to most outsiders. Terrible for clandestine missions and secret ambushes.

"Well?" Arthur said as he reached the knight.

Lean as a deerhound, his light hair fading toward white in faint streaks, face too narrow for more than a few deep grooves, Tristan smiled in satisfaction.

"It's perfect, sire, it dead-ends in a ten-foot pocket, we'll have them on three sides." He glanced over Arthur's shoulder as Arthur scanned the hillside – again – for any hint of a scout's figure. Though any scout worth his salt would hardly allow himself to _show_, on the skyline. "I see Gwaine talked you into letting Bodiver run?"

"Let's just hope he doesn't panic and scream for Merlin's help," Arthur said.

Tristan grinned. They all knew Bodiver's courage – and the only reason Merlin had blown into that village with his wispy gray there-in-an-instant magic was fear for the king's wellbeing, not his own.

"All right." Arthur let his crossbow drop from his shoulder to a more firing-ready hold, checked the thumb-trigger. He glanced over his shoulder at the ten – no, nine without their youngest – knights. "Let's get into position. Oh, and Tristan –" he added, as the men began to spread out around the pocket formed at the end of the ravine behind trees – "you'll need a new horse when we return to Camelot."

The tall man grimaced in cheerful resignation. "Thank you, sire."

They didn't have a quarter-hour to wait past Bodiver's instructed time.

To check and double-check line of sight, firing mechanisms, bolts at the ready. To feel the first tentative rays of early-spring sun touch the links of their chainmail-armor – heavy and cold and unpleasant in the winter, heavy and hot and unpleasant in the summer. And as king, he rarely left the citadel without it. Unless he was in the mood for an argument, and there was a long line of people willing to give him one. Beginning with Merlin, and Guinevere.

He sighed and shifted against the tree trunk, relying on his hearing to alert him to action when the time came. Removing his gloves, he tucked them through his belt, the easier to handle his weapons.

Couldn't think of Merlin, far to the north on his physician's errand. Couldn't think of his wife, her clear brown eyes and smooth warm skin and soft curves covered and accentuated by the lustrous silks of a queen… _For the love of Camelot, Arthur, concentrate. It's been ten years with her, and four days without!_

He focused his thoughts on Bodiver, head craned to the left to see the line of the hill, broken by the trees of the valley between that and the next to the north. Tall and slim and proud, the chainmail and resplendent embroidered red cloak on the young knight would shriek Camelot across the wild moor. A single scout. Separated from a remote patrol.

An easy target.

The bandits would give chase.

That was part of the reason Arthur was here, to subdue this border decisively. This particular band of thieves and cutthroats had no respect for the law-keepers of the kingdom. They hadn't the decency to scatter and fade and take a month or more to regroup, to leave stragglers behind who would spill their guts at the first hint of clemency, providing information that led to more captures. The golden dragon stitched to the back of their cloaks might well have been a pair of concentric circles, as far as this particular group was concerned.

They were afoot; by choice, Arthur suspected. Which meant, they'd get Bodiver off the horse first. That sparked a memory, and he smiled at the fleeting thought of defending a village against forty such men, mounted, with pitchforks and Morgana and Merlin.

Today, though, defense was not the object.

He pictured the youngest knight of their company pounding through calf-length field-grass, away from the screaming horde of –

Arthur's ears pricked. Tristan, the next man down, straightened slightly, adjusting the grip of his crossbow. He glanced at Arthur; the trap would not be sprung without the king's signal.

A flash of red. Bodiver scrambled down the ravine to the sloping pocket at the end, panting, the wood-ax in his hand a surprising incongruity. Where had he gotten that? Arthur wondered with a fond grin to himself. Resourceful of him.

Bodiver gave a single desperately-exasperated glance round the rim of the pocket – by his expression, he wasn't able to visually confirm their presence, in that brief moment. The young man turned, ax raised, as the first half-dozen bandits rushed into the bottleneck.

Hairy, unwashed, half with head-scarves and the rest in dire need of a haircut – two years ago. A motley collection of soldiers' weapons to stolen farm implements, an even wider range of scrounged armor, mostly leather. Though Arthur was pleased to note among the mismatched clothing, scraps of over-the-border indigo rather than Camelot scarlet.

They paused in place, seeing Bodiver trapped. He balanced himself, menacing them as a group with the ax, and said nothing, clearly ready to sell his life as dearly as he could. And… they waited.

Arthur waited, scraping the print of his thumb across the trigger of the crossbolt. _Hold… hold…_

The bandits separated to let one man through. At first glance, indistinguishable from the rest. At second glance…

The only man with decently-trimmed hair, dark and beginning to gray, though his beard was a startling near-white. Fifty, maybe, give or take. His armor a breast-piece of woven leather strips, wrist-guards with a bristling fringe of fur still in place. This was the leader Arthur had been waiting to identify.

He sauntered between his men; Bodiver shifted a half-step back and crouched in readiness to fight.

Arthur aimed.

"Trapped, are we?" the bandit leader sneered in a thick accent.

Bodiver glanced up again, and Arthur stepped around from behind his tree, keeping the arrow trained on the base of the man's throat, followed closely by the rest of the knights, and just as silently. Bodiver's teeth flashed white in a grin, though Arthur read relief in the way his narrow shoulders relaxed.

"That's the idea," he informed the bandit, almost cheerfully.

The short-haired man looked up first, a scant second before his followers began to realize the vulnerability of the position.

"Throw down your weapons and surrender, and you might leave here with your life," Arthur said clearly.

The bandits looked to their leader, who sent a piercing scowl around the arc of knights who nearly surrounded him and his men. One thing Arthur hadn't considered, til right this very moment, seeing the arrogance and barbarity of the man who commanded - they wouldn't surrender. They wouldn't first lose a man to each one of the initial flight of arrows, and then surrender. These men wouldn't scare at losing two-thirds of their number to the arrows of Camelot; these men would require brute force to subdue, they and their leader would go down fighting. These men had more brawn than brain, more pride than plan…

That wouldn't matter to Arthur, if they chose death before surrender, if not for Bodiver. In the seconds it took to shoot down the bandits' numbers, each man – and especially the leader – would fight back. The vast majority of their weapons hand-to-hand. And only Bodiver within reach.

He glanced down. No quick, easy way to the bottom. He'd have to jump, then, and aim for one of the enemy to break his fall. No time to give the order to another, and because he'd approved the plan, the responsibility was his.

And, maybe guessing that an action as expected and anticipated as yanking his own sword would be met with a bolt, the bandit leader twisted, snatching the sword from the man nearest him. Whirling to attack Bodiver, who blocked the strike with the long handle of the ax.

Arthur's thumb moved.

The long-haired bandit second to the leader's right jerked, cried out, and dropped. Bolts from the other knights' crossbows whistled, struck, and cries of pain filled the air.

Arthur drew his sword, bellowing the signal, "On me!"

And launched himself flying into the mass of bandits, determined to fight beside and protect the youngest of his knights, trusting the others to cover them as they fought.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin's journey home took him first southeast, obliquely toward the pass guarded by Dinas Emrys, out of the foothills of the mountains of Isgaard to the west of the White Mountains, before he could turn south-south-west on more level ground. A bit out of the way, but Merlin wasn't a crow flying straight, and it saved time from climbing up ridges and down gullies half a day.

Gilli kept good pace beside him, but didn't seem keen to broach whatever topic had brought him from Ruadan's clan to Iseldir's. Merlin let him take his time, but the longer they walked silent and the further they got from the camp, the more significant the news became, it seemed to him.

"He still there?" Gilli asked, when they hit a bit of an open rise, nodding toward the northeast. "Your dragon, the red one? We used to catch glimpses, maybe once a season, after the battle. The white one, not so much. Once a year maybe – only he's harder to see, too, in the air. But we haven't seen the red one in – over a year?"

"He's not _my_ dragon," Merlin remarked in mild protest.

"More yours than anyone else's."

"Kilgarrah's just – old," Merlin said, and snorted a gentle half-breath of air through his nostrils. "He's been old for a long time. He's fine. And yes, still there." His feet had slowed and stopped of their own accord, he noticed, as he gazed off to his left toward the hill he'd put behind him, now. The mare took two more steps, nosing the hand that held her lead.

At Dinas Emrys fiery core, the ancient magic sleeps no more…

_Kilgarrah_?

_Emrys_, came the response. Bringing with it that half-second of relief, the same as he felt whenever Gaius responded with clarity, these days. _You return to Camelot, finally?_

_ The plague has been stopped, those afflicted are recovering. My place is with Arthur._

_ That is correct. But do not make the mistake of thinking that the labors of this month are ended._

He'd spoken to the elder dragon twice that month, trying ineffectually to discover the cause of the rapidly spreading and usually fatal illness, then to formulate a magical antidote to contain and cure. It reminded him, actually, of the days of illness in Camelot before they discovered Nimueh's afanc in the water. But he didn't have Gaius to research cause and effect while he used his magic to heal, this time. Still, only three had died since his arrival, which was much better than the eleven who'd succumbed before Iseldir had called for his help.

_I know_. But that would have to wait til he was back in Camelot, with time and space and resources of information available.

Merlin opened his eyes to Gilli's patient curiosity, and said, "He says hello."

Light blue eyes widened in shock. "To me? He did not!"

Merlin grinned, and Gilli nudged his shoulder as they continued walking, the rising sun on his left side rising toward a mostly-cloudy sky. Light and high and white, but lined with a gray that promised another spring thunderstorm within the week.

"Have you heard the name Lochru?" Gillia said conversationally.

Merlin had heard many names, but, "It's not familiar."

Gilli made a noise between a hum and a grunt, watching his feet as they walked – not to cover ground, now, but for something to occupy their bodies while their minds traveled elsewhere. "He's an old man in my clan," Gilli went on. "A seer, and a pretty powerful one, I gather."

Merlin almost stopped walking. Kilgarrah hadn't said anything. But evidently this Lochru's vision was important or specific enough – unless Gilli had only come to confer with Iseldir, not Merlin.

He was aware that he was mentally grasping for straws.

Gilli noticed his reaction, and gave him a sideways glance.

"I have –" Merlin cleared his throat – "heard prophecy. I have seen visions in a crystal. Highly unpleasant, Gilli, and almost I could say that I wish it had never happened. Foreknowledge is dangerous. And uncertain."

His friend nodded, his gaze round and steady. "And yet, it has been given to us anyway. And the elders have decided, it should be given to you." He spread his hands. "There were times, Merlin, when we were children, that I envied you. We sat side by side on a log and I said the words over and over to myself – and aloud – and Ari flicked my ear and corrected and corrected –"

Merlin almost smiled. He remembered that; more than one snide comment had been made about the side of the target their instructor had on the sides of _his_ head.

"Day after day and nothing and nothing." Gilli paused, and there was a faint wry smile on his face. "And you'd try it once like you'd been speaking the old language all your life and the spell would be perfect and powerful… and for a moment, I would be so jealous of what you had and what you could do." Merlin noticed he was twisting the ring on his hand absently, lost in thought. "But there was Alvarr, and then Dinas Emrys, and… I envy you no longer, my friend."

"Lochru has told Ruadan the vision, and he sent you to pass it on," Merlin guessed quietly. He took a deep slow breath and let it out; he did not want to be pitied, either.

"To you, Merlin Emrys, to pass on to your king," Gilli said; his solemnity had a youthful quality that Merlin was tempted to envy. "Lochru has seen war. Here in the White Mountains. He has seen the red-and-gold emblem of Camelot. And he has seen the white dragon spewing fire over the battlefield."

Aithusa and battle could only mean one thing. "Saxons?" he said. Gilli shrugged. "Do you know when, or where, specifically? Any detail to tell the time of year, or –"

"I can only tell you what was said to me," Gilli told him apologetically. "But Ruadan is pulling our clan further into the mountains to the west; I think he means to seek sanctuary for us within Olaf's kingdom."

"Thank you," Merlin said, reaching to take Gilli's hand. It wasn't much to go on, but at the very least, Arthur wouldn't be caught unprepared. "I wish you luck, then, and your family safe."

"Yes… I… won't be going with them." He glanced at Merlin, flushing a bit self-consciously. "I'm not a killer. I haven't got great magic, or… skill with healing, but… if there's going to be a battle, perhaps I can help. A bit." He shrugged and tried to make light of it. "Heal a few wounds, save a few lives."

Merlin grinned at his friend, gripping him now by the shoulder; he was suddenly proud of the other man. Because behind the lines with the wounded was not a guarantee of safety, after all, it took courage to commit the way Gilli was doing.

"You're staying with Iseldir, then?" Merlin said. If Ruadan's clan was moving west, he didn't know of any other druids in the neighborhood.

"For a while." Gilli nodded. "I mean, if – things stay peaceful – well, my clan does need me to. Can't wait for years and years, you know."

"A day and a half east is a town called Ealdor," Merlin said.

Gilli smiled and nodded. "I've heard of it."

"It's on Camelot's side of the border now, and the village elder is a friend of mine. If you can get them the news, they can pass it to the next town on the border. Someone will get a message to Sir Lancelot; he holds that border against Cenred."

Vortigern's son had been very quiet the last few years – deceptively so? – refusing official representatives but making no overt moves into their territory, not contesting Camelot's appropriation of the few neglected border villages. But armies meant scouts, and an invasion force would be stupid not to gather information wherever they could. And probably ruthless enough to gather it _however_ they could…

"It was good to see you, Merlin," Gilli said, angling his body to begin the trek back to the druid camp.

"And it seems we may see each other before too long, again," Merlin commented, turning to mount his mare. "Stay safe, Gilli."

"You as well!" his friend hollered after him, lifting a hand in farewell.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The battle was over quickly, and Arthur's knee was telling him it was a damn good thing.

He stood at the lowest notch where the ravine cut through the hillside as three of his knights handled wounded and prisoners and two more dealt with the dying and the dead. He stood nonchalantly, his weight on his left leg, hoping no one would notice.

Gwaine stood next to him; he'd taken a reckless leap into the gorge as well to fight, the three of them together – he, Arthur, and Bodiver – as the others fired their crossbows, until the ranks of the bandits were so decimated, and the short-haired leader knocked out, they'd thrown down their weapons. The most reckless of Arthur's knights – still, though there were plenty newer knights who occasionally gave him some competition for that distinction – said nothing.

He didn't have to. The little voices in Arthur's head – which sounded quite like Merlin and Guinevere, actually – were saying everything for him.

_Of all the stupid things you've ever done_… that was Merlin.

_Brave_, he argued back. _Courageous. Noble_.

Merlin-in-his-head wouldn't back down. _Stupid_, firmly.

_What were you thinking? You're king, and not as young as_ – no, that wasn't what Guinevere would say. She would say, _you're only as young as you feel, love_, with a sweet smile. And he'd limp to the bed, his knee throbbing, and ease himself down on the edge of it, groan, and say, _then I'm way too old for you_. And she'd get that twinkle in her eye and set about proving him wrong…

"Think we can be home by nightfall?" Gwaine finally said, and Arthur looked at him sharpish, hoping to high heaven his expression hadn't given him away to Gwaine of all knights, who delighted in saying the most provokingly absurd things, true or not.

But the roguish knight was focused a bit absently on the work of his fellows down the ravine. Arthur allowed himself a slight smile; Gwaine was a married man, too, although with his wife eight months expectant, he probably had different reasons for the concern. Arthur remembered that concern with such a delicate and important process that he had absolutely no control over – it didn't get any easier with subsequent children, either.

"If we ride hard," he allowed. "By midnight, perhaps."

"Your Majesty!"

Arthur turned – slowly, to put no stress on his aching right knee, to betray no weakness to his enemies or his men. Sir Ecter, a short, compact man with small dark eyes, short gray hair and a bristling moustache, was charged with this season's patrol of the border, the reason Arthur had come himself. The senior knight was strong and solid, but held back by his own inability, or reluctance maybe, for daring initiative, creative strategizing, or clever gambling. Which today, had paid off. Ecter would have chased this band all season, each whittling indecisively at the other's numbers. Camelot had suffered no casualties this day, and only minor injuries.

"Look what we have here," Ecter declared, pushing the leader of the bandits – sullenly silent, bearing a single trickle of dried blood on his cheek to mark a shallow cut as his only wound. Unimpressive, yet in accomplishing his unconsciousness, even momentarily, it might have hastened his band's surrender.

"He comes with us," Arthur said. He wanted the leader interrogated, but was not willing to camp out on the high moors many more nights to achieve that. "Gwaine and Tristan are with me," and Bodiver of course, that went without saying, "the prisoners are yours, Ecter."

Execution was by royal order only, and ransom seemed an unlikely possibility for this rabble. The prisoners would therefore be used as forced labor at the garrison captain's discretion; Arthur would set the length of the sentence following the leader's trial.

"I fear," Ecter said, almost gleefully, pushing the man down on the slanted hillside, "that this is no ordinary prisoner, Your Highness."

The man's hard gaze darted to Arthur's face, which Arthur held expressionless. He saved the crown for unavoidable state affairs; the man had not known who he was fighting, til that honorific from Sir Ecter. But then, what intrigued Arthur more, the man darted uneasy glances around at his chainmail-clad companions – looking for what? Arthur thought – before relaxing down into his sullen stupor.

Ecter grabbed a large metal ornament from the man's breastbone and yanked to snap the links of the chain holding it around his neck. Arthur left the puzzle of the man's reaction, knowing what the ornament was before Ecter passed it into his hand. He controlled his own visible response, making a show of studying the piece carefully, almost suspiciously.

"What's that, then?" Gwaine said, looking over Arthur's shoulder.

It was silver, though so tarnished it looked half its value. A crescent strung by its horns, a pair of tiny silver balls attacked at each point and the center of the inner arc. Arthur tipped the piece to match what would show on the indigo banner – the crescent moon and six stars. Six for each of the old king's sons. Which one was this man? Perhaps birth order didn't matter, if only one prince survived young adulthood – Bayard's kingdom seemed built on the same principles – though those events had occurred before Arthur's birth. It might not be fair to judge him on such an old rumor.

However, Arthur could – and was required to – judge him on more recent actions and choices that had taken place on his kingdom's soil and involved his citizens.

"This," he said evenly, mostly addressing Gwaine's question, "is the royal crest of Caerleon."

And as such, only one man would wear it. One man of this man's generation, anyway – if he had sons they also had the right to bear its replica upon livery, as Camelot's knights did upon their cloaks.

He added, "Is it not, Your Highness."

The man growled, and Arthur sensed rather than saw Gwaine's hand move to the hilt of his sword in clear warning that Caerleon ignored. Arthur took his eyes from the other's furious dull-iron gray gaze, and gave Ecter a wintery smile.

"Make sure you get names," he instructed the senior knight. The list of dead or captive would be included in the missive to Caerleon's queen. Then repeated, "He comes with us."

**A/N: Thanks to shelle-ma-belle for advice on topography!**

**Also, if anyone finds themselves confused about who married who, or which kid goes to which parents, etc. please let me know and I can include a cast list…**

**Hope we've made a decent start. Next chapter, the wives – and maybe Arthur&amp;Merlin…**

**Oh. And some dialogue from ep.3.11 "The Sorcerer's Shadow", ep.4.5 "His Father's Son".**


	2. The Home Front

**Chapter 2: The Home Front**

"It is just like Arthur," Morgana complained, turning round once more at the door to the guest chamber, to repeat her dissatisfaction with her brother to Gwen. Again. "Gallivanting around the countryside swinging his sword when there's more important things to worry about."

Gwen smiled – again – and met Lancelot's eyes over Morgana's shoulder. Patience personified, that man – if he ever lost his temper with his impetuous wife, it was not in public. But she could see that he understood, as she did, that Morgana spoke from her own anxiety, not any real criticism of her brother's methods of ruling.

"I'm sure it won't take long," she said reassuringly. "He'll probably return within the week – maybe even by tomorrow."

Morgana gave a very unladylike snort and pushed the door of the chamber out of Lancelot's hands to storm inside, though he was giving her figure – rounded with child for the second time – plenty of room in the doorway.

Gwen leaned closer to say to Lancelot - one-time captain of her father's guards of Lionys and the first man she'd ever been attracted to, _so_ long ago it seemed silly and childish now – "Dreams?"

Neither of the couple had mentioned the purpose for their sudden trip to Camelot from their estate near the northeast border, but Gwen knew them both. It was more than a whim that had Morgana wound up, to the point of losing her temper over the dinner they three had shared because both Arthur and Merlin were absent. It was more than a change of scenery after a long winter that had Lancelot allowing his pregnant wife and three-year-old daughter to journey to Camelot. But she knew better than to push and pry, like a gossipy soldier; she'd learn the matter when Arthur returned, and til then, she could be patient, too.

Lancelot smiled gently and shrugged, not really giving anything away. From inside the room came the crash of breaking glass, and an annoyed exclamation from Morgana.

The knight said to Gwen's concern, "She'll fix that. Good night, my lady."

"Good night," Gwen returned with a small sigh and smile, as he closed the door. Never _could_ get him to a first-name basis.

It was late, now, the torchlight flickering, reaching into the dark shadows of the corridors as she walked. That didn't matter much to her, she was almost always up late when Arthur was gone. No reason to go to bed. And it was harder falling asleep, she was so used to his presence next to her as they slept.

The citadel had not been built for a dual monarchy, she had noticed but never pointed out to her husband; if he'd noticed, he'd never cared enough to discuss it with her. Certainly Arthur never acted as if he wanted it any other way – if he had, he was king and could have effected a change. Perhaps it hadn't occurred to Uther to plan for a queen's set of chambers adjacent to his own, anticipating his descendents' rule, or perhaps the thought of them standing empty – expectant? – during his reign was too painful.

So the royal wing consisted of the king's massive and luxurious chambers, and two slightly smaller ones. Therefore, she and Arthur shared.

The bed - which was big enough for their whole family to share and they'd proved it before - and the space. And because they both were used to much smaller accommodations – and because they both preferred the company, she blessed her lucky stars with a fond smile for their unusual courtship and atypical royal marriage.

She turned a corner and eased open the first door on her right. And even though her boys both slept like logs, she paused on the long narrow triangle of torchlight from the corridor to remove her shoes. It used to be Arthur's room - now, his sons'. And just as cluttered, she thought with a sigh, though she hoped the books and toys would not give way too quickly to the metal and leather of armor and weaponry.

George was snoring in the antechamber. Arguably the best servant they employed. It was George or the cook, and she and Arthur would never agree on that question. His patience with his princes was boundless, but his stiff and proper manner often served to keep them in line, also.

Gwen crept to the bed her sons still shared. At least until one or the other complained and asked for separate sleeping arrangements. It would be a few years yet, she thought.

On the far side, Lucan. The crown prince, the heir. Blue-eyed like his father, though his hair was so dark brown as to be called black quite often, and curly. In a few more months when the weather got too warm, he'd be asking for it to be cut like Percival's. The big knight was something of an idol to the boy, and she knew – she kept his secret, all mothers did when their children said, _mother can I tell you something_ – his dream was to be squire to Sir Percival.

She approved. Arthur would approve, when Lucan was old enough for the privileged appointment. Percival, she rather thought, already knew.

Lucan required little interference from her anymore, after bedtime, though if he minded the kiss she dropped on his soft dark curls, he never said. That too, would continue until he complained of being too old for it. He was always tucked up tight in the blankets, curled in a ball, sometimes with only his face showing.

Brian, on the other hand… Gwen rounded the bed already smiling.

All her children were special. Lucan so expressive, so determined to be a good prince and win the approval of his father, so upset when he didn't live up to his own standards – higher actually than Arthur's, whose love and pride for both of his sons were plain to everyone. Brian was quieter, thoughtful. And totally, wholeheartedly devoted to his brother. It was often Brian who comforted and encouraged Lucan best after some minor perceived failure, or shamed him into admittance of an actual fault by his earnest manner.

More effectively, sometimes, than their own parents. However that worked.

Brian was slender and wiry-strong, a step behind his brother in size as two and a half years separated their ages, but their height was almost the same. Because of Brian's growth spurt that had drawn out his baby roundness, and because he'd habitually walked on tiptoe since learning to accomplish the activity on his own.

Arthur wasn't worried. He won't do it once he's wearing chainmail, he predicted.

Gwen adored the childish habit. It spoke of Brian's eagerness for everything life had to offer – something that was more precious to her since twice they'd nearly lost their second son. Twice he'd contracted lung-fever, in his second and third year, and even now was prone to chest congestion even in warm weather, and he might never have the physical strength of his older brother. They had Merlin to thank for his life, though it brought tears to Gwen's eyes to think – the magic had been able to save Arthur's son, but could not prevent the loss of two of his own during the early months of Freya's pregnancy. Though Gwen believed the comparison never even occurred to Merlin.

She adjusted the blankets around her second son, sprawled uncovered nearly sideways across the bed. Without opening his eyes, he obeyed her coaxing to roll off the blankets his body was trapping, and tuck long spindly legs down in the sheets. She kissed him as well, loving the clean scent of her son's hair and skin.

Around the corner and up the short stair, shoes in hand though of course the sole stationed guard pretended not to notice, stocking feet or the wry smile of his queen.

This room had once been Morgana's. Though the colors now were pink and lavender and lacy white rather than the jewel-tones the older princess had preferred.

The curtain was open between Bethan's bedroom and the antechamber where Hiera slept, and Gwen didn't disapprove. Bethan was with Gwen all day, except when it was inconvenient for the queen to fulfill duties with a four-year-old in tow, or Bethan herself wanted to play, but the nurse-maid was very careful with the little princess at night.

Gwen smiled to herself, removing the fancy beaded slippers from her sleeping daughter's feet. Somehow _for special occasions only_ had translated into _every night after Hiera falls asleep._

She brushed Bethan's damp curls back from her round little face. Their daughter was fairer than her brothers, golden hair a few shades darker than Arthur's, deep blue-berry eyes. Sweet for eleven hours out of ten, and then abruptly stormy. She was the boys' nurse and pet, Marya's dolly and best friend.

Gwen kissed the plump cheek, stepped back, and thought how very blessed she was.

And in the daylight, with Bethan running from Hiera and shrieking refusal to have her hair combed and Lucan shouting because his assignment for their tutor wasn't finished and Brian's was and Brian refused to let him just see what he'd written, or to get angry and shout back at him and Brian would be fighting back by ignoring his older brother and she'd be tearing her hair out in clumps and both cursing Arthur for leaving and wishing he'd return as soon as possible.

Back in the king-and-queen's chambers, she dropped her slippers by her wardrobe, slipped into her nightgown and the bed without the aid of her maidservant – though tomorrow she'd need it to fix the gown she hadn't unfastened properly, only wriggled out of, and her hair, the pins of which she removed by feel and fumbled onto the bed-side cupboard-top.

Resisting the temptation of the middle of the bed, she curled up on her side and counted leaping coursers until she fell asleep.

Sometime in the night, she heard movement.

Immediately familiar to her, the sounds of her husband trying to ready himself for bed without waking her. Rustle of clothing and footsteps, the soft trickle of wash-water and the creak of wardrobe door; she neither moved nor opened her eyes, even when the mattress jostled under her at the addition of his weight.

"You're home then?" she murmured stupidly, still half-asleep.

He hummed weary agreement, gathering her a bit roughly to him, her back to his chest, his thighs against her rear, one arm pushed under her head and the other crossing her chest to grip the shoulder she rested on. She shuffled a bit, pushing back a lock of hair he'd caught on accident, adjusting his arm over her chest for her comfort, too. Snuggling into him and hugging his arm.

"Night," he said, his kiss falling half on her earlobe, and half on her neck.

She sighed, and smiled, and went back to sleep.

In the morning, she woke to the golden glow of opened curtains, whispering, and a warm little body with sharp knees and elbows snuggling at her back.

Bethan, of course. Habitually came to her parents' bed for an extra hour of sleep in the morning. Unless the door was locked, then they'd later find her bouncing on the boys' bed whether they were awake yet or not.

But though the little girl often did go back to sleep, Gwen didn't. She did, however, begin to pay attention to the whispers when Arthur's deeper voice joined in.

"Was there a battle?" It was hard to tell which boy was which when they whispered.

"There was… a few minutes of fighting."

And, Gwen knew, if he'd come home, they'd been victorious, both with those few minutes and the mission itself.

"D'ja get wounded?"

She covered her smile though her back was to her family. It was precisely the inflection of, _did you bring me a present_? the question asked when the king returned from more sedate visits to foreign courts.

"Not really."

She frowned at that. _Not really_ meant _kind of_.

"Are you gonna have another scar?" Wounded – scar – _present_. Gwen rolled her eyes. Boys.

"No."

"I can't _wait_ til I have a scar!"

_What_? Now _that_ had to be Lucan. Gwen rolled over, coming nose-to-button-nose with Bethan, whose blue eyes sparkled at her.

"Fava's home," the little girl whispered gleefully, happy to be the one to reveal the surprise.

Gwen widened her eyes as if astonished by the news and whispered back, "He is?"

Bethan nodded delightedly as Gwen reached to caress Arthur's bare shoulder past their daughter's tousled head. He reached an arm back to squeeze her hip lightly in response; she lifted her head but couldn't see the boys, probably seated on the thick fur rug on the floor beside the bed.

"I hope you never do," Arthur answered.

"_Fa_ther." Gwen could almost see Lucan's eyes roll. "All the bravest knights have scars."

"Well, we'll just have to train you til you're such a skilled warrior, you won't get wounded, and so won't have any scars," Arthur returned, more lightly but no longer whispering.

"So…" That was Brian. "All the most skilled warriors, don't have scars?"

"Nary a one." Gwen could tell that Arthur was half-teasing, trying to circumvent the topic for the youthful audience of his own sons.

"What about you, then?" Lucan said, sounding dissatisfied with his father's claim. "You have scars, does that mean you're not skillful?"

Gwen swallowed a giggle, but couldn't help poking him between two ribs. He stiffened slightly in involuntary response, but shifted his thumb to a ticklish spot just inside her hip-bone; she froze, grasping his hand to keep it still. Bethan's eyes were wide at Gwen's breathless laughter.

"I got that scar a long time ago," Arthur answered, laughter in his voice. "_Before_ I was highly skilled."

"Who says you're skillful now?" Gwen teased, and Bethan giggled at her mother's daring.

Arthur growled, rolling to sling an arm over both of them. "Who says I'm not?" he demanded playfully.

She couldn't help laughing aloud from the sheer joy and pleasure of having him. He wasn't perfect – who was, after all? – but he was a fine king and a fine husband and a good father and she loved him unreservedly.

"I know two boys and one little girl who need clothes on and breakfasts eaten and lessons learned if they're going to have a hope of growing up as skillful as their father," she called out. As Bethan began to wriggle out from between them, the two boys popped up from Arthur's side of the bed.

"Morning, Mother!" Half-a-second delayed echo, and two identical grins.

"I'll see you later," she said to them, and they scampered for the door.

"Why are you running, you'll never be skillful!" Lucan shot breathlessly at his brother.

"I'm already clever-er than you!" was the smaller boy's answering jab.

"Well, I'm faster!"

And Bethan, "Wait fo' me!"

She laughed again as the heavy oak door slammed shut.

Arthur scooted closer to her in the warm tangled sheets, fitting their bodies together comfortably and deliberately, touching his forehead to hers.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," he said, sleep and desire making his voice pleasantly throaty.

She stroked the soft short hair of his beard, and smiled into the blue of his eyes, creased just the slightest bit at the edges when he grinned or squinted into a sunny distance. Knowing exactly what he wanted, and that he was going to get it.

"Welcome home, sire," she responded, playfully seductive.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

When Freya heard the back door open and close, she assumed it was Hunith, bringing in the sage clippings from the back garden. She didn't look around, instead glancing at the candle on the table to estimate the time.

They'd be here any minute.

She checked the tiny ruellia seedlings in their horn cups of rainwater – all the roots were growing well, white and spidery – re-counted the pots waiting for her students.

And when hands – _his_ hands, her mind corrected almost immediately, familiar and loved in every aspect – slid around her waist to trap her against his body behind – lean and strong and warm and also belovedly familiar – her startled twitch turned into a shiver of pleasure and happiness. Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes stung for a moment; she leaned back into his embrace, hugging his arms and hands, fingers spread over her ribs and abdomen.

A thought sparked, sudden and uncertain – _does he _know_, already_?

"Oh," she said only, putting all the longing of the lonely month and the joy of the moment into the word.

"I'm home," he whispered into her hair, dipping his head to kiss her temple.

She tilted her head, feeling something inside, something that rose to a greater alertness and strength of responsibility while he was gone, ease away. Blinking against the tears and nestling back against him, she whispered, "I'm glad… How did you know I was here?"

This house in the lower town, where she and Gwaine had lived together when first they came to Camelot, had been rearranged over the years – when she had married Merlin – when Gwaine had married Enid – when Gaius finally had been persuaded to relinquish his responsibilities, and Hunith had left Ealdor to become the old man's companion. They two lived here now, tending the garden and Gaius' books – while she and Merlin, and Gwaine and Enid, had quarters in the citadel – and this was where she taught the children, once a week.

How to recognize and prepare plants that were edible and medicinal and in which season. To stay away from those that were not, and a good bit of basic health treatment, how to care for wounds or illness or broken bones or poisoning, until the victim could receive more official care. And all on a _very_ juvenile level, at least for now.

"I saw mother in the garden as I was passing," he said. "She told me."

Freya hummed agreeably, knowing that the fact of his return and his apparent good spirits meant he'd been mostly successful – finally – in his battle against the druid's plague. They could discuss details later, when they wouldn't be interrupted.

He kissed the side of her neck again and she lifted her hand to cup his face – stopped – then whirled around in mildly amused shock.

"Merlin!" she said. "Didn't you shave the whole month?"

"It wasn't really a priority – and there wasn't a mirror in the guest tent." His boyish grin took years off the bearded look, and the blue of his eyes twinkled as bright as ever – youthful and ancient at the same time. "You like it?" He bent to kiss her lips and she responded absently, still occupied with testing the texture of his whiskers with her fingers.

"It'll take some getting used to," she allowed. "You're going to leave it?"

"What do you think?" He rubbed his cheek gently against hers.

It wasn't the rasp of stubble, but still rough and a bit tickly. She made a thoughtful noise, pushing his face back a bit to again gauge the visual effect. The door opened and closed again, and this time it _was_ Hunith.

"Are you going to make him shave, Freya?" her mother-in-law asked with warm humor.

"Haven't decided yet," she said playfully.

"He looks a bit like his grandfather did," Hunith commented, and Merlin released Freya to stride across the room to the small mirror hung on the wall.

Freya took the moment to evaluate her husband with a quick private scrutiny. No injuries, no overwhelming worries bowing his shoulders or dragging his brows together, no obvious weight loss to indicate stress or sickness. With Merlin, there was never any guarantee what she'd get back after an excursion, and it had taken her months, at certain times in the past, to love him back to himself, physically and mentally and emotionally.

"I do, don't I?" he mused, rubbing his chin.

Freya sent Hunith a questioning glance – she'd thought both Merlin's grandfathers had died before he was of an age to remember them.

Just then, Gaius stirred in his chair at the hearthside. "What is it?" he asked with a touch of irritation – at them, at himself, at whatever understanding of his condition he had. "Who's there? Hunith? You have company?"

"It's me, Gaius, I'm home," Merlin said, turning to his old mentor.

"What do you mean, _it's me_," Gaius snapped, shifting in his chair; it was sometimes hard for him to find a comfortable position for old bones and joints, and he often woke stiff and sore, after napping too long. "I don't know you."

One moment of silence. A heart-pang for all three of them; these moments were not uncommon anymore, but always unpredictable.

"Probably because of the beard," Merlin covered smoothly, moving across the room to the old man's side, where he bounced down into an easy crouch. "I'm Merlin, Gaius, remember?"

"Merlin!" Gaius exclaimed, leaning forward to peer at him. "Skin and bones druid lad? My, you've grown!"

Before anyone had a chance to say anything further, the front door banged on a rush of exuberant boyhood, the first two through intent on a walking-wrestling match of some kind, mismatched but friendly.

"Auntie!" That was the third boy, shortest and youngest of the trio, never as concerned with the physical rough-and-toughness of his friends. "Auntie, I dreamed that Lucan had a turnip for a head!"

"That wasn't a dream," drawled the tallest boy. Tristan and Isolde's son, born ten months after the battle for Camelot, ten years ago. He had his father's build and a juvenile version of the haystack hair, but his mother's knowing eyes and sly smile.

"Istan!" Prince Lucan protested the insult, trying to sink a punch in his friend's stomach.

Marya was last through the door, and Freya couldn't help smiling past the boys at her daughter. Bent nearly double under the round-cheeked, bright-eyed bundle of her cousin, she managed to close the door once they were all through.

"Mama, Aunt Enid says can we take Gareth today, Uncle Gwaine got home last night and she –"

"Oh, yeah!" Both princes remembered at once and spit out their own news at the same time, as fast as possible.

"Father's back!"

"Father got home in the middle of the night!"

"And no scars this time!"

"But his knee is sore!"

"Arthur was gone?" Merlin stood from Gaius' side, his expression showing mostly interest with a touch of concern.

Freya shrugged to begin a reply, but lost her words in the chorus of excited shrieks from the children, who only just noticed Merlin was present. Hunith stepped back from the stampede, caught Freya's attention, and rolled her eyes fondly at the pack of children jumping about her son – all speaking at once, and he appeared to be able to listen to them all at once, too.

"Uncle Merlin! You grew a beard like Father's!" Lucan exclaimed.

"Like your father's?" Merlin said, tousling the boy's hair. "Hm, I'll have to shave."

Istan took a half-step back after his initial enthusiasm, on the edge of an older child's self-consciousness. Merlin held out his hand, interrupting his concentration of the others' babbling for a moment to give Istan a more mature greeting that had the boy turning pink with pleasure. Freya took two steps to relieve Marya of Gareth's weight, and settled him on her hip so the little girl could greet Merlin unencumbered.

"You don't look like the king, Father," Marya observed from behind Brian, who had a two-fisted hold of the bottom of Merlin's jacket. Merlin leaned over the younger prince to cup his daughter's face and kiss her cheek, somehow making the greeting private in spite of the group. She added thoughtfully, "You look more like Uncle Gwaine."

"Heaven forbid!" Merlin's eyes twinkled in mock-horror. "Off it comes!"

"All right now," Hunith interjected gently, turning the two oldest boys to the table where they sat for Freya's lessons. Merlin turned back to Freya with a question in his eyes, but was distracted by Brian, who hadn't released the edge of his jacket.

"Uncle Merlin," he said, a deep joy quietly urgent. "Watch this. Watch this, Uncle Merlin!" The boy held out one grubby, long-fingered hand, and Freya was smiling before he even spoke the word. "_Leoht_."

Nothing happened; Brian's eyes flickered up to Merlin's in a moment of disappointed panic, then he glared stubbornly at his palm.

"_Leoht_!" A blue light sparked, quick but definite, and the boy beamed.

"Excellent." Merlin's voice was rich with warm pride, as he laid his hand on Brian's head. "You've been practicing."

Freya's throat felt thick, and she shifted one hand from Gareth's back to her own belly. To see Merlin's pride in _Arthur's_ son learning magic… She had to tell him. If he didn't already know.

"Marya?" Merlin added, reaching into his pocket. Their daughter looked up from taking her place at the table beside Brian. "How about you?" He tossed a tiny object, and Marya's eyes glanced gold, freezing it for a moment. She lost her control as she reached for it, though, and it clattered to the tabletop. "Much better! Well done!"

"Mama, it's a button – look, it's got a tiny hawk on it – it's beautiful Father! – Mama can I have it on my cloak please please please?"

Freya nodded, smiling happily at her little daughter's pleasure as Merlin crossed to her. She asked him in a lower voice, "Did you make that?"

He hummed distracted agreement, reaching to chuck Gareth's cheek. The little boy batted at his hand, leaning away from him warily – a month was a long time at Gareth's age, and his uncle Merlin did look a bit wild. Merlin, undeterred, poked at the plump belly instead, and the little boy squirmed and chuckled in Freya's arms.

"I thought Isolde had them today?" Merlin added to her, as Hunith supervised the older four at the table, passing out scraps of parchment and charcoal pencils.

"No, that was yesterday."

In addition to the tutor who taught reading and writing and history and calculation, and Freya's lessons in health and medicine – and Merlin's lessons in magic – the children spent one morning a week with Isolde, in a specially-outfitted corner of the training field, weather permitting. Or when it wasn't, an hour or so in the armory or the royal forge. Lessons in safe handling of weapons, how they were made and repaired and used, the very basics of self-defense, both armed and unarmed. It would provide a good starting-place for the boys' training when they became squires, and wasn't bad information or experience for the girls, either.

"Hm. I must have lost a day in there somewhere." He drew her to lean against him, kissing her at the edge of her hairline a bit absently. "So you're busy the next few hours?" She gave him an apologetic half-smile. "I guess I'll go on up to the citadel, get changed and see Arthur –"

At the table behind him, one question emerged from the constant hum of voices. Hunith asked the princes, "Where's Bethan, today? I hope your sister isn't feeling sick?"

"No, our other cousin came yesterday," Lucan informed her. "Bethan's playing with Nenna because she didn't want to come to lessons and Mother said it was fine because Auntie Morgana had to talk with Father."

Merlin's focus sharpened instantly as he looked down at Freya.

"No, I don't know," she answered his unspoken question softly.

"Maybe I'll see Arthur first," he said, and gave her a smile that was wide and genuine and loving, but she knew him and could see the shadow of deeper concern behind it. "I'll see you later?"

"Love you," she said, in agreeable response, and watched him cross the room, waving to a flurry of goodbye's from the children. She was already looking forward to when they could be alone, late tonight when official responsibilities were discharged, and Marya finally asleep, but… she rubbed her fingers over her waistline absently.

She didn't want to tell him.

**A/N: A bit shorter, this chapter. But thematically, the next one gets into the guys and politics a little more. And, this is all that's done right now.**


	3. Kings and Councilors

**A/N: I was asked to provide a cast list of sorts so kids/couples won't cause confusion:**

Arthur&amp;Gwen: Lucan (boy, age 8), Brian (boy, age 5.5), Bethan (girl, age 4).

Merlin&amp;Freya(pregnant): Marya (girl, age 6.5).

Tristan&amp;Isolde: Istan (boy, age 9).

Gwaine&amp;Enid(pregnant): Gareth (boy, age 2).

Lancelot&amp;Morgana(pregnant): Nenna (girl, age 3).

Leon&amp;Elena have 9-year-old twin boys, unnamed; Percival is unmarried; Elyan's status is going to come up later on.

…..*…..

**Chapter 3: Kings and Councilors**

Merlin was a bit out of breath when he reached the door of Arthur's chambers, and knocked.

Many were the times he'd walked right into the prince's room, and also long gone. Even if it hadn't been for the fact that Arthur now shared privacy with his wife, Merlin would never feel comfortable bursting into the chamber he first associated with Uther. Even after ten years and half as many changes in decoration and organization overseen by Gwen, there was always that catch of uncertainty that prevented the familiarity.

"Come," Arthur said, and Merlin couldn't discern his mood through the door.

He pushed it open far enough to admit his head and one shoulder. "Arthur?"

The king was seated in a high-backed chair padded with a white-gray wolf's pelt, leaning forward a bit, one knee bent and the other nearly straight in front of him. The wince Merlin barely glimpsed was replaced swiftly with the sort of glad surprise the king always tried to suppress, and couldn't quite.

"Merlin," he said, his tone characteristically blending pleased relief and a faint accusing impatience. Then, "What is that on your face? You've replaced your scarf with a dead muskrat?"

Unoffended, Merlin laughed, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. He was relieved to see that neither Arthur's trip nor Morgana's visit presented a joke-banishing crisis.

"No, I just wanted to see if it would make me look as pretty as you," he returned.

Arthur leaned back, leaving the one leg straightened out in front of him, draping his elbows over the arms of the chair, lazily contented and fighting the half-smile. "No one looks as pretty as me."

Merlin decided it was the better part of valor to leave Arthur's wife out of it. "Well," he carried the argument, "Gwaine thinks –"

"We _let_ Gwaine think that because it keeps the peace," Arthur interrupted.

"No, it doesn't." Merlin grinned.

Arthur considered. "No. It doesn't." Merlin pushed away from the door, crossing the room to Arthur's side. "How was your trip?" the king continued. "Have you finally managed to cure the druids?"

"Yes, but the disease was magic-related, and I wasn't able to establish a cause."

He held out his hand, which Arthur took, but instead of giving it a shake of greeting, he pulled the king to his feet, nudged him to turn and back up, motioned him to sit on the table. Arthur gave him a stubborn look that said he was inclined to pretend he didn't understand what Merlin wanted, or at least to refuse.

A look which slipped into a weary sort of recognition that Merlin was just as stubborn as a friend and even more so as a physician, and would get his way eventually, and it saved Arthur time and effort to cooperate at the beginning. Merlin flashed him a grin that was understanding and triumphant, both, as Arthur lifted himself to sit on the edge of the table, and Merlin knelt in front of him to begin rolling Arthur's right trouser-leg.

"So you're going to want to hole yourself up in the library to research?" Arthur said, wincing and adjusting his position as the material pushed over his knee.

"Mm. Eventually." He hadn't forgotten the druid's message of approaching war, or whatever brought Morgana and Lancelot. "Did this swell right away?" he asked.

"No, it was just stiff after I twisted it. It was swollen when I woke up this morning."

Merlin positioned his hands to gently surround the inflamed joint and spoke the spell, "_Acolian-leoht_." He felt the chill faintly, as he would have felt a flame held in the palm of his hand as a flicker of comfortable heat. Arthur hissed a breath through his teeth, then slowly relaxed.

But it would take a moment for the swelling to subside sufficiently for him to observe the placement of bones, to feel the softer tissue at rest and in movement.

"What did you do to it?" Merlin asked, shifting his grip fractionally.

"Jumped down a ravine."

He gave his king his best Gaius-look. The raised eyebrow, the unspoken, _Really? how foolish_… "How far down?"

"Ten feet. Maybe twelve."

Merlin finished the spell and held the back of Arthur's boot in one hand and concentrated on the components of his knee with the other, slowly straightening the leg, then bending it back under the table, alert to any noises or sensations – popping, grinding, or locking – that were abnormal. With open injuries it was quite straightforward, mostly, visually he could see what damage had been done. This was a bit more delicate.

"It can bear your weight, right?" he said. "You haven't lost any sensation, have you? It doesn't feel like this foot is colder than the other?"

Arthur leaned casually back on his hands, released the breath he'd been holding. "Yes, no, and no."

"How did you land?" Merlin said. "Was there an impact, just a twist? Was your foot planted?"

"Hells, Merlin," Arthur said irritably, "I wasn't thinking about my _knee_, I was preoccupied with _not dying_."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "It could be important. How did you land?"

"On another person."

"_What_?"

Arthur's expression was defensive. "It was an enemy."

"So I should congratulate you for that? What were you doing?"

"Chasing bandits near the southeastern border. It doesn't hurt much, just aches once in a while. Listen, Merlin, do you think you could…"

"Does it hurt in your ankle, or in your hip at all?" Merlin interrupted. "More when you're going up stairs, or down?" He thought maybe it was a ligament, either the anterior or the lateral, maybe a bit of damage to both, but not torn all the way through, that was a good thing. With the swelling gone down, he could use rosemary to increase blood flow to promote healing in the joint, he could bind it tightly for a bit and they could elevate it while Arthur lay flat on his back to rest – oh, wait.

"I wouldn't normally say this to you," Arthur said, instead of answering. "But do you think you could just heal it with magic? I may not have time to wait it out – what Morgana sees is usually imminent."

War in the White Mountains… and with Arthur _asking_… "_Ic the thurhhaele thin licsare_." Magic hummed from his fingertips, warmed in a small sphere around the king's joint to accomplish the healing, repairing the internal tears. "You'll still have to be careful on it for a while, just to be sure everything's healed properly…"

Merlin stepped back as Arthur eased off the table from a sitting to a leaning position, and reached down to unroll his trouser-leg. As the king straightened, Merlin watched him realize that he had not bathed or changed his clothes after his journey; his blue eyes were keen.

"Another vision," Arthur said. "A great battlefield, the banners of Camelot… but you're not really surprised."

Merlin leaned his forearms over the back of the companion chair at Arthur's table, dropping his head to rub with his fingertips. "I was given a message from a druid seer… probably much the same thing. At least, I hope so." He let out a rather grim snort. "Otherwise we're heading into _two_ wars."

"_That_ would be too much of a coincidence." Arthur sounded more hopeful than confident in the assumption. "Did the seer happen to tell you when, or where, exactly?"

Merlin shook his head. "The White Mountains, only."

"That's a lot of land," Arthur sighed. "I've called a council meeting for this afternoon – Morgana wanted to rest, between the baby and the nightmares she's not been sleeping well, so you'll have time to eat and clean up and –" He stopped, cocking his head slightly to study Merlin.

"And shave?" Merlin guessed the end of Arthur's comment, and gave a low laugh at himself, rubbing his jaw. "My mother said it makes me look like Aurelian."

"It does, a bit. Can you… do me a favor?"

"Of course," Merlin said easily, but couldn't help a bit of a dig, "my liege."

Arthur made a brief face at him. "Before you wash and change and all, will you come with me? There's something I want to show you."

Merlin was curious. Something so important it couldn't wait, yet had only occurred to Arthur. Something that had to do with the way Merlin _looked_, at the moment?

"Sure," he said, pushing upright. But Arthur made no move to follow.

"And could you – put the hood of your cloak up. And roll your sleeves to the elbow." Arthur watched him obey critically, then gave a small satisfied smile. A smile Merlin had seen before, a crafty smile that meant he was pleased with a clever tactical element of a new plan. Merlin had learned over the years, sometimes it was better not to ask.

Didn't stop him from asking, though. "What now?"

"Come with me."

As they walked the corridors – Arthur with his gait once again confident to the point of arrogance with his knee healed, and Merlin a half step behind and beside – he began to guess at Arthur's plan. He'd been too focused on reaching his king when he arrived, to pay attention to the people around him in the citadel, but now he noticed reactions. The servants startled, the occasional guard stiffening slightly in alarm, before recognition of him eased the alert.

And when Arthur headed down the stair to the dungeon, Merlin concluded that there was a prisoner, maybe captured on the border, that Arthur wished to intimidate, probably subtly since he knew it made Merlin uncomfortable that the fact of his power could be interpreted as a threat, in certain circumstances.

"How many times were you locked in a cell, here?" Arthur tossed over his shoulder conversationally as they descended.

"Twice," Merlin said. "While you were fighting Valiant. And… while you were fighting Sigan's soul in Cedric's body."

"Hm," Arthur said. "I was, only once." Merlin almost missed the next stair, in surprise, and Arthur raised an eyebrow at him over his shoulder. "Did I never tell you this? Coming back from the Forest of Balor with that flower-antidote for the poison in Bayard's gift chalice that you drank from. My father was upset that I disobeyed, and was going to teach me a lesson. Bayard was under arrest at the time as well, until it was decided that he was innocent in the affair… he was kept just through here." The king paused before a great iron-bound door at the foot of the stair. "Interesting."

"What is?" Merlin asked, following him through, as two guards seated at a small square table just to the right inside the door stood to attention.

"At ease," Arthur told them. "Anything to report?"

Merlin glanced around the room – a series of window-slits let in sufficient sunlight without presenting an avenue of escape; there were shutters and a small hearth-and-chimney in the inner wall, if the nights got too cold.

Six cells, though only one appeared to be occupied, and all roomier than Merlin's room behind the physician's chambers, when he was Gaius' apprentice. Similarly furnished, though – no dirty straw and open buckets, here – clean and dry and airy. Beds in the cells, narrow and hard but equipped with barracks-quality blanket and pillow, even an extra chair – thick, heavy, and solid. No delicate legs or spindles to snap suddenly for a weapon to catch an attendant by surprise.

All in all, better than some peasants had it.

"Nothing, sire," the nearer guard said, looking a bit uneasy, but determined, around the nose-guard descending from the center of his conical helmet. "The prisoner was dissatisfied with his breakfast – we've only just finished cleaning it up – but your instructions were to provide necessities, not to offer amenities."

There was the hint of a question in his tone.

Arthur nodded. "Yes, you did right. We're not running a tavern for his convenience or comfort. Food and water in decent supply, and if he wastes it, that's his loss."

Merlin saw the sole occupant of the room-size cell shift, and knew the king had been overheard – Arthur probably had intended that.

What else did he intend?

Arthur turned his attention to the prisoner, sauntering closer to the wall of iron bars. Merlin drifted along just behind him, silent until he figured out exactly what Arthur was thinking. They'd fought and planned and strategized alongside each other for many years; he trusted his king and didn't need have to have every detail explained in advance to follow a plan. And Arthur knew that, too.

"Come to gloat, Your Highness," the prisoner rasped. "You can't do this, you know. My queen will –"

"Be a lot more willing to listen to reason, I hope," Arthur said.

There was a pause, and Merlin used the moment to study the man. A hard, sullen expression behind the cropped hair and near-white beard – a fighter, and an older one, which meant some experience. Uninjured, which meant some skill. And here in Camelot – which meant he had some value to Arthur. The man slouched on the end of the bed, ignoring the chair. It looked to Merlin like he'd ignored the wash-water and soap provided, too, as well as breakfast. He looked an uncivilized barbarian, but there was pride and arrogance in scorning provision while imprisoned. Merlin wasn't at all sure he would waste the chance to eat or wash if he was locked up, himself.

"Merlin," Arthur said.

Not to _him_, exactly, but to the prisoner. And in an odd tone of voice. Odder still was the man's reaction.

The prisoner straightened, his dark eyes glittering in the unwashed tangle of hair and skin that was his face.

"Merlin," Arthur said again, and this time his king was addressing him, not merely stating his name as a fact into the room. "This is King Caerleon."

_Oh_. That explained just about everything.

The persistent problem with border unrest and raids on the villages – not just clever bandits using the border against both kingdoms to pass back and forth and avoid patrols, but the king himself leading warriors against the citizens and provisions of Camelot. The reason Arthur had brought this prisoner back to Camelot – but not to the rougher dungeon. And the reason he'd asked Merlin to accompany him, looking more like Aurelian with Constennin's warriors hard on his trail, than the educated court physician of Camelot.

It was something he'd noticed – and he rather thought Arthur had as well – among the rulers of Uther's generation. Lord Lionel de Gransse, Arthur's father-in-law, and King Rodor were the exceptions; they'd welcomed Merlin unreservedly, without wariness or suspicion.

Olaf and Godwyn, Arthur's closest allies else, preferred to politely overlook him whenever they were in company; he didn't mind leaving it to Arthur to deal with them, and appreciated his friend not forcing the issue. Bayard preferred not to be in the same room as him – and the feeling was mutual – and though Alined's deep antipathy had ended with his death, his replacement Lot was coldly impersonal with Arthur and Merlin both, iron-fisted but fair and honorable and more reclusive than ambitious. Cenred was as elusive as a fox, but as long as he caused no trouble, Arthur was inclined to ignore him, also.

And now, Caerleon. Reacting like Arthur had brought a wolf to be his cell-mate. Rather like Uther, Merlin thought – a ruthless warrior who didn't trust what he didn't understand, suspicious of strength in a man that he couldn't visually evaluate.

"King Caerleon," Merlin said, very calm and very polite. Magic was not to be used for threat or intimidation… but a reminder, Arthur probably thought, and Merlin didn't disagree, might be in order.

Not unlike Aithusa making his presence known on the northern coasts. Thus is our land protected.

He moved to the bars of the cell and put his right arm through, hand extended for a civilized introduction. The green-black knots and swirls of his druid's tattoos that covered his forearm wrist to elbow were exposed by his sleeves rolled to his elbows. Caerleon's eyes were fastened to that proof of Merlin's magic; his back was pressed to the stone wall.

Merlin let several moments of rejected gentility slip past, his hand empty in the air. Almost he wished the man would gather courage to give them both a chance… Arthur let the same moments pass, til Merlin dropped his hand, still just inside the cell as he leaned on the bars.

"I mistook my fellow monarch for a common thief or bandit," Arthur remarked in a casual way, letting the facts accuse the man. "Only last week he seized the village of Stonedown on the border and looted it completely – then ran down an unhorsed and unarmed knight before we captured him. Young Bodiver."

Merlin's anger was genuine and immediate, though he controlled it. There was more to the story than that, and he'd get the full version from Arthur later, but whatever the situation, that was one thing he found hard to forgive – one man using such a disparate advantage against a weaker opponent who posed no threat. It always reminded him of Alvarr in the druid camp when he was a child. He straightened away from the bars of the cell and glared at the man.

Caerleon muttered something sullenly.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said. "I didn't quite catch that."

"He wasn't unarmed," Caerleon spat, more clearly.

"Ah. No, I suppose not, after he availed himself of that wood-ax – did it belong to one of your men, originally?" Arthur didn't wait for an answer. "I will be meeting with my council this afternoon, to decide what is to be done, with you personally as well as about the situation. You will be informed when we have reached a decision."

Caerleon turned his head deliberately to look out a window.

"Were you trying to start a war?" Merlin asked, keeping his voice quiet. When it became obvious that the other king would not acknowledge him, he added to Arthur, "I wonder what he would do with you or I, if he caught us on his lands, robbing his citizens or seizing his towns."

Arthur gave him a troubled look, which Merlin didn't understand. Even in a hypothetical, the king would be in no danger. Merlin would do anything it took to free him, surely he knew that. Anything.

"Only," he added to lighten that look, stepping to Arthur's side in preparation for their departure, "_you_ are too noble and honorable to trespass and steal."

Arthur's mouth twitched as if he wanted to accuse Merlin of a hidden insult – but not in front of the king that was currently their enemy. So he turned and walked to the door, and Merlin followed.

"Carry on, men," the king said to the guards, who nodded and murmured, _Sire_.

Merlin pulled the heavy iron-bound door closed behind them, but stood in place as Arthur began to climb the stairs. "So. What really happened?"

Arthur paused and turned to look back at him. "Gwaine's plan. Bodiver volunteered, as our fastest runner, to draw Caerleon's band into an ambush."

Almost he protested. Except that neither Gwaine nor Arthur would ever be careless with the young knight's safety. And he was a trained warrior. And he could have called for Merlin's aid if the situation was extreme – and he hadn't. And –

Merlin did smile, then. "Your knee?" he said.

Arthur pretended not to understand. "What?" he said, turning to continue up the stairs. Merlin jogged after him, and he paused at the head of the stairs for Merlin to catch up.

"What the druids told you, what Morgana saw – is it war with Caerleon, do you think?" Arthur said.

"The White Mountains are past Cenred's land," Merlin said. "And I was told, the seer foretold Aithusa's involvement. His destiny is to war with the Saxons… Though I believe he would defend Camelot if the citadel's fall were imminent, _that_ battle wouldn't take place north of Dinas Emrys, anyway."

"Damn," Arthur said blackly. "Without knowing when all this is supposed to happen – it could be next year, next month, next _week_ – we cannot fight on two fronts." Merlin opened his mouth – Bodiver was not the only one who could volunteer to face seemingly overwhelming odds by himself, after all – but Arthur forestalled him. "And I will not ask you to face an army alone, you and Aithusa, just because you can. It isn't right to use your magic so, and you know it."

"But if it was necessary…" Merlin murmured, but it was relief he felt. He _could_… but whether he would come out of such a confrontation alive, or even _himself_, he didn't know.

"Well. Get something to eat and get cleaned up," Arthur told him. "No reason to unbalance the council, too, with your appearance."

Merlin flashed him a grin, rubbing the months'-worth of beard on his face, before doffing the hood of his cloak. He began to unroll his sleeves, as they parted at the cross-corridor.

"And don't be late!" Arthur called after him.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur paced his bedchamber. Careful of his knee at the turns, though there was no lingering pain or weakness that he could sense, but it helped to control each step. He needed movement and distraction and a release of a bit of energy.

He wouldn't have turned Caerleon and his horde of whatever passed for paid fighters on his side of the border loose even to avoid a war – had he known there was such on his horizon, at the time - that would merely encourage the man to continue, to increase the pressure he put on Camelot. But Arthur didn't know what else he could have done, to prevent hostilities escalating with the queen still in power. His letter to her, whatever he wrote, had to be composed and carried quickly; the council could not take days and days to argue the best course. Though neither should he act arbitrarily without a simple majority support – a king could not dispense with his council's counsel often without undermining himself eventually.

A new concern was, if Caerleon's circumstances were mishandled, it could greatly complicate the issues to be raised by Morgana and Merlin – probably the same issue. And he was afraid _that_ consideration would prove the more important, by the passage of time.

He needed it handled, and decisively, in a way that would not have him distracted by repercussions at a more critical point, later on.

A knock sounded at the door, before one of his guards put his head in. "The meeting, my lord," he reminded, as Arthur had instructed. Because it would never do to pace the length of the greater council chamber as the room filled. A king could not be _seen_ to pace.

He gave the guard an abrupt nod, and paused briefly before a small side table against the wall, under a mirror. To place the crown on his head – a reminder in more ways than one. To himself, and to his audience.

Arthur was king. He was also Uther's son – and that would mean something else to the older councilors than it did to Arthur himself. Son of the ruthless war-lord, and perhaps with little patience for pointless arguing and vacillating.

Merlin had once said to him, Uther makes enemies where none need be. The weight of the crown reminded Arthur to be like his father in the ways that were wise – but not in all ways.

When he turned the corner, Gwaine and Percival were approaching the council chamber from the other end of the corridor, Lucan swinging at Percival's other side, clinging to his bent elbow so he could make great leaps with his feet off the floor as Percival walked. Gwaine's flippant wave turned into a flourishing bow, as the knight caught sight of the crown Arthur wore.

"Your Highness," he intoned, with a flash of a grin, and avoided the bare elbow Percival jabbed toward his ribs.

"Sire." The biggest knight gave Arthur a bow that was more abbreviated but also more appropriate. They'd already spoken that morning – briefly, as Percival as senior knight had nothing out of the ordinary to report from the time of Arthur's absence.

Arthur looked down at Lucan, the boy's eyes sparkling with eager interest, and prompted gently, "Lessons, Lucan, or training?"

"Yes, Father!" The boy twisted and jogged back the direction he'd come from, yelling at the juncture of the hallway, "Brian! Where are you?"

Arthur smiled and shook his head. Almost he wished for those days back again for himself.

Two-thirds of the chairs around the circular table were filled already. A few older men – wealthy landholders and a pair of merchants, Geoffrey of Monmouth – and the knights. Tristan and Isolde next to Gwaine, Bodiver standing against the wall. Lancelot between Percival and Morgana, resplendent in emerald silk and the intensity of her expression a bit at odds with her figure rounded by impending motherhood.

Merlin stood close behind Morgana's chair, but he was turned to talk to Guinevere – as if the two magic-users had already spoken to each other and finished, when the queen joined them. From their gestures and expressions, Arthur assumed Gwen had asked about Merlin's trip, and was commenting on Merlin's decision to keep the beard.

He had, Arthur saw with approval, shaved the sides of his jaw, leaving his beard to cover upper lip and the front of his chin. It made him look older, but with his finer court-clothes – a long coat like Arthur's own, but sleeveless to show the shirt of the royal blue color he favored – he no longer looked the forest-dwelling druid or the untamed dragonlord. Court physician – yes, exactly.

Arthur found himself wondering briefly what Gaius had looked like as a young man. Or what Merlin would look like as an old man.

One by one, then all at once, his council noticed his entrance – and mostly they were seated by the time he reached his place between Guinevere and Merlin. Except Gwaine, who didn't slide from the tabletop to the chair seat til half a second later – but Gwaine was a bit of a rebel, and because his obedience and loyalty really were unquestionable when it truly mattered, Arthur allowed these little moments when it didn't.

And if it had been a routine meeting with nothing critical on the agenda, he might have opened with a few minutes of bickering with the long-haired knight.

"Thank you all for coming," Arthur said, glancing around to catch everyone's eyes. "We have more than one issue to discuss today, the most pressing of which is our royal guest. King Caerleon –" he paused as Morgana shifted impatiently; she probably disagreed, but this had to be dealt with so focus could be given to the more nebulous threat of war in the north – "was yesterday captured on our lands. During a skirmish which he instigated upon one of our knights clearly displaying our official livery. After an unprovoked attack upon Stonedown and other border towns."

"This is not the first time he's trespassed on our lands," Lord Nollar said, a stocky, slow-spoken landholder in his mid-seventies. Merely stating fact.

His neighbor two down leaned forward. "We must send a clear message, once for all, that any action on any border against Camelot will be met without mercy." Lord Tindr, a decade or so younger, and built like a longbow – long and slender, dry and hard, spine curved forward. Outspoken and extremist in his views.

"Caerleon lost over half the men in his band yesterday," Arthur said. "The other half labors to rebuild and replace what they damaged and stole. Does that not send this message?"

"And the man himself?" Nollar said.

"It would be compassionate to return him to his own kingdom," Morgana spoke up. "Perhaps escort him under guard to the border, and leave him with a warning? Royalty is due a certain respect, after all."

True. But a bit uncharacteristic a sentiment to come from his fiery half-sister. Arthur leaned sideways toward her, beyond Guinevere on his left. "That may be, Morgana, but this man would see compassion as a weakness to exploit."

"And the likes of Odin and Bayard, who covet Camelot's wealth for their own?" Tindr said. "If they knew they could strike with personal impunity, we would face constant depredations on all sides, and even our allies would doubt our strength."

"Then what do you suggest?" Arthur said to him.

Tindr looked surprised, and Arthur didn't blame him. He didn't often invite the man to state his opinion so baldly, but they'd never faced dealing with another monarch as a common criminal before, either.

It did remind him of Bayard, arrested by Uther – they'd been lucky, he thought in retrospect, that the treaty had held, but only just. Mercia had never been a friend of Camelot, and it was true that Bayard would probably turn on them rather than support them, if through some catastrophe the fall of Camelot became a probability. He wondered how much was due to Merlin – the swift handling of their various crises before word could cross borders, the promise of his stalwart defense using magic if any should try to take advantage of times of weakness.

The days of famine and drought after the unicorn had been killed – his father's marriage and bereavement to a monster within the course of a week – his own declared death after the trip to Lionys.

"I suggest… I suggest that we force him to accept a treaty on our terms. He must withdraw his men from our lands. Return our territories to us." Tindr was on a roll, almost fanatically intent. "He must surrender Evorwick."

Arthur cast a glance around again, calculating those who seemed to agree, but their expressions, those who obviously disagreed, those who might be undecided, or simply not showing their thoughts. Guinevere shifted, and he tilted his body slightly in response. It was a swift unspoken, _shall I say it or do you want to_, answered with, _in this case, I'd prefer you to be the one to speak up._

"He'd rather die than agree to such terms," the queen stated.

Tindr hesitated only briefly, but addressed Arthur. "Then you are left with no choice."

Arthur did not smile in incredulous amusement. He did his very best to remain respectful of the narrow-minded lord, who after all wasn't alone in his opinion. "I can't kill a man in cold blood. And, as Morgana has said, a royal life ought to be untouchable."

"You must do what you need to do to assert your authority on this land," Tindr demanded.

"And I will, my lord Tindr, you may be assured of that," Arthur said. "A forced treaty, however, is worthless. If he signed it, he would look for opportunities to make us enforce it. And to make his life the price of a refusal to sign would guarantee war with his queen."

For a moment there was silence. Tindr subsided, his spine bowing his pointed nose even closer to the tabletop. The other councilors exchanged looks; Nollar was watching Arthur, who gave nothing away.

"You could ransom him," Tristan said, "with terms similar to the treaty. Require his queen to agree in his name if she wants him back."

Arthur almost snorted.

Gwaine did not control a similar reaction. "_If_ she wants him back," he repeated sarcastically, and Tristan shrugged.

"No accounting for some women's taste," he said. "Perhaps she loves him." Isolde leaned to whisper something in his ear that made him laugh softly.

It wasn't a bad idea, though. "A return to the old borders," Arthur mused, "at the very least. Perhaps a monetary penalty, to help with the reconstruction of our villages, a heavy fine that Caerleon will feel financially to remind him not to venture onto our land again."

Most were nodding. Lancelot was expressionless; Gwaine looked skeptical – but he and Tristan, Bodiver, and Merlin were the only ones at the table who'd actually met the man. Bodiver would have to be asked twice before venturing his opinion, and Merlin didn't often speak up in council meetings, mostly because he and Arthur had already discussed the issues in private beforehand. Only if it were a question raised by someone else that he had a unique perspective on, or if Arthur called on him to give professional testimony to the group at large, or if it was advantageous to Arthur for someone else to make a certain point or argue a particular view.

"How long do you think before Caerleon decides to do a little judicious raiding to recoup his losses?" Gwaine said. "He's going to resent you no matter what you decide, Arthur, and look to make your life miserable in retaliation."

That was very likely. But he didn't have the time or the men to make sure Caerleon remained on his side of the border.

"You could keep him," Merlin said. His voice was quiet but clear, and thoughtful; he lifted his gaze from the edge of the table to meet Arthur's.

"Hold him as a hostage," Arthur said. "For the good behavior of his queen and warriors?"

"He need not be kept behind bars, on bread and water," Merlin went on, speaking as though just to Arthur alone, and not to the council as a whole. "Until he is persuaded to peace, keep him here where one or two knight-escorts can guarantee his cooperation, rather than releasing him and needing twenty troops to constantly – and maybe unsuccessfully – patrol the border to enforce whatever terms you make. And with him here, we can retake those territories if you so choose."

Arthur felt a self-conscious smile pull at his mouth as he turned his body in his seat to face Merlin more directly. "Until he is persuaded to peace," he repeated. He felt Guinevere slide her hand into his, hanging over the opposite arm of the chair. "And you believe that… I can persuade Caerleon to peace?"

Merlin's smile was beautiful and almost intimate, the faith shining clear in those blue eyes shatteringly humbling. "I do."

Arthur almost asked whether Caerleon's uneasiness with Merlin's magic might contribute to reaching that goal.

"Now accepting bets on how long it takes," Gwaine remarked ironically.

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer," Tristan commented, and beside him, Isolde nodded.

Lancelot said quietly, "At least until…"

The other knights alerted to Lancelot's unfinished comment, and looked to Arthur for explanation, followed momentarily by the non-military council members.

"Which brings us to the other issue we need to discuss today," Arthur said, pausing deliberately.

But no one protested, no one added anything to the acceptance of the last suggestion. Of course, Merlin's plan was not one that did not admit of changes later on, as the others had. Ransom or even execution could be re-addressed – but hopefully it would not come to that. Depending, maybe, on what Caerleon's wife responded to the letter Arthur would have to compose and send.

"Morgana, if you would," Arthur added.

She rose from her seat, sending a flashing gaze around the table. It had happened a handful of times, over the years, that one of her prophetic dreams contained information the council had a right to know – and under their father's reign, this would never have happened – but she always wore a defensiveness, a defiance, when facing these men. It was different than taking part in discussion.

"I saw a great battlefield," she said. "The war was already over, and all was still. Only the crows left alive. Horses and men – bodies and banners – swords and shields – everything left to lay in confusion. I recognized only the standard of Camelot. I don't know where, though there were mountains surrounding. I don't know when – any grass had been trampled away, any trees cut down or burned… although –" she glanced at Arthur – "these dreams have never taken longer than a month to come to pass."

Silence. Dead silence.

"War, then," Nollar said. "Are your dreams, my lady, ever – avoidable?"

Morgana gripped the edge of the table. "What I have seen, I have seen," she said. "But often – the outcome is not what the vision leads me to expect."

Arthur wondered if she'd seen anyone she knew among the dead. He gave his head a single shake, deciding he didn't want to know.

"War with Caerleon, then?" Tindr asked. "Perhaps we should execute him straightaway, in that case."

"No," Arthur said decisively. "We will handle the issue of King Caerleon with the intention of averting crisis and attaining peace and we will hope that an understanding can be reached before this battle comes to pass. Merlin."

Morgana sank back, but didn't release the table's edge or sink back into her chair, as Merlin stood. In direct contrast, he exuded an air of calm and quiet confidence.

"A message was given me by the druids just before I left them," he said. "A vision from Lochru, seer of the clan of Ruadan. _To you, Merlin Emrys, to pass on to your king. Lochru has seen war. Here in the White Mountains. He has seen the red-and-gold emblem of Camelot. And he has seen the white dragon spewing fire over the battlefield_." Merlin glanced down at Arthur and added, "It has been said for many years that the purpose of the white dragon Aithusa was to go to war with the Saxons. It has long been said that greed would push the invaders south from the coasts where they land, through the mountains and into the heart of Camelot. Past Camelot, until all Albion has felt their presence."

"This is the battle that Lady Morgana saw?" Gwaine asked, leaning one forearm on the table.

"Heaven forbid there should be more than one," Guinevere said quietly, unmoving. Her fingers were a little tighter around his.

"Is there any other corroboration?" Tindr demanded. "Dreams and visions and prophecies. Have we hard evidence that an army plans to invade?"

"By the time we have hard evidence," Arthur said, forestalling whatever Morgana opened her mouth to say. "We would be scrambling to organize even the barest defenses, and fighting among our fields and our homes, perhaps even besieged here in the citadel."

Merlin, still standing, said very quietly, "One moment, Arthur?"

A moment of silence. Everyone watched Merlin – his eyes closed, his jaw clenched. He turned his head once, as if to hear a distant sound better, or to begin to disagree with something irrefutable. When he looked at Arthur, there was a flicker of gold in blue depths.

"Aithusa said, he has sighted long-boats on the north-west coasts; he showed himself and the men ventured no more than a stone's throw from the beaches. I've asked him to return to check the northeast coasts."

Arthur rose to his feet, gripping Merlin's arm briefly. "Thank you – let me know as soon as you hear from him." Merlin nodded, and Arthur faced the rest of the table. "This is what I propose. We make ready now. Gather and store supplies of food and medicine, increase production of weaponry and armor – Tindr and Nollar, I give it to you to oversee those efforts. Gwaine, Tristan – train more men, and harder. Lancelot, if we can have a quarter of our forces ready, I would like you to lead them north. Cover the passes, send out scouts, build watchtowers, and so on. Geoffrey, I will need a letter drafted, a copy to be sent to our allies, warning them of this information, our preparations, ask them to consider what efforts they might contribute."

And if men like Odin and Bayard noticed them preparing to go to war and misunderstood? No, he couldn't worry about that, now.

"My lord, the _costs_," Tindr objected. The pair of merchants, gleeful as children on holiday at the news of mass purchases made by the crown, glowered at him.

"And if the enemy does not come," Nollar added, more ponderously.

"Better to be safe than sorry," Percival said.

"Sir Percival, I would speak to you and Sir Kay about our royal prisoner's accommodations," Arthur added.

Percival nodded, and the raw-boned young man beside him tried to cover his startlement with an imitation of the biggest knight's quiet confidence.

"If there isn't anything else…" Arthur added, once again meeting everyone's gaze in turn for a few moments. Varying levels of uneasy responsibility, grim determination, thoughtfulness. "Then. I think we all have work to do. Council dismissed."

**A/N: Some dialogue from ep.4.5 "His Father's Son". And you see why this took an extra day – a long (but hopefully not boring, because it **_**was**_** necessary) council-chamber scene…**

**Just fyi, I posted a poll on my profile to try to decide what story I should focus on when this arc is completed… it'll stay open until **_**Torr Badon**_** is finished. I have to be honest, I don't usually vote on such things myself, I figure the author should just write where the inspiration takes them, but these four ideas I've already written some material for, so any one of them should be easy to pick up and run with… **


	4. Hidden Things

**Chapter 4: Hidden Things**

Freya opened her eyes, but didn't other wise move, wondering what woke her.

The shutter on the window was still fastened, not even a glimmer of light showed. Middle of the night, still.

Perhaps it was her state of undress. It had been a long time since she'd fallen asleep with Merlin without making sure of her nightdress first. A young child who might wander in at any moment – even a baby who might need midnight attention – encouraged the habit of sleeping clothed. Perhaps it was that residual awareness of unusually compromised modesty that nudged her awake.

It wasn't due to any discomfort of temperature. A small fire crackled on the hearth beyond the foot of the bed, she could both hear it snap and pop, and see the dancing shadows it threw, as if someone had just tended it. The air was warm on her bare skin as a result; she lay curled on her side, her arms bent to her chest for sleeping comfort also providing a modicum of privacy. The covers, unnecessary for warmth, she could feel draped lower over her hips and legs.

But the pillow beside her own, dented where her husband rested his head, was empty. She tipped her head fractionally on her pillow, curious but not alarmed.

He was still in bed with her. Just, almost halfway down – she couldn't see if his long legs hung off the end or were still tucked up on the mattress; she couldn't see whether he wore anything under the sheet, or not.

Merlin lay on his side, facing her, his head pillowed on the swirled tattoo of one forearm. The other, outstretched to touch her. Just the faintest brush of his fingertips in an open circle over her exposed belly.

He knew.

All evening, after dinner eaten in company with family and friends, a welcome-home as well as a what-now debate of the political situation, she'd been trying to think of a way to say it. Because she didn't want anyone else to know, not even Marya, she'd waited until it was the two of them alone. But then it was, catching up with the news. He hadn't said much about his month with the druids but there had been plenty for her to tell him about what had happened while he'd been gone.

The butcher's boy whose illness hadn't responded to _this_ treatment, but she'd tried _this_, and it had worked. The stablehand whose foot had been crushed by one of the chargers stepping on it, which Merlin would need to examine soon, to see if any of the bones needed to be re-set with magic, though there was no sign of infection, so far. The harebell that hadn't come back after the winter, so she'd need to gather a supply from the wild, for immediate use and to try to re-grow in the garden.

Merlin had been quiet, thoughtful, a troubled set to his eyes.

"What are you thinking, then?" she'd asked.

"Just… the future."

"The war?" she guessed.

"I suppose it was bound to come sometime," he said. "We've another meeting tomorrow to look at maps. I just…" He trailed off.

"What is it?" she said.

He didn't immediately answer. "Prophecy," he said finally. "Destiny. And what comes after… Kilgarrah once told me, neither my death nor Arthur's would prevent destiny. But Arthur has been a great king for ten years now, there's very little hostility between the kingdoms. And now Aithusa's purpose may be met within the month. I just… wonder, what comes after. If anything."

Sometimes she caught a glimpse of what the fact and magnitude of his magic meant to him, to his thought processes and decisions, to the weight of responsibility he carried. It bothered her, for his sake – and he'd noticed that.

"But Kilgarrah says a lot of things," he said. "The last thing he said to me was…" He broke off, looking past her face for a moment.

"Was what?" she said.

"Basically, that my work this month wasn't over." He made a thoughtful noise. "Perhaps the plague that targeted the magic of the druids wasn't unrelated…"

And then, abruptly, he'd been finished with any verbal discussions.

He'd taken her in his arms and held her tightly and kissed her. Persuasively. Again, and again. And the month's absence – as had happened before – had served to whet both their appetites, as well as flavor their love with a hint of novelty in the familiarity.

Merlin moved his hand slightly, the arc of his fingers rotating a bit around the curve of her stomach. She wondered how he knew.

There was nothing to see, yet. Nothing even to feel – she herself had to lie flat on her back and press very firmly very low to feel the tiny roundness that would grow… that was supposed to grow… she hoped.

"What are you doing?" she said softly.

He shifted to meet her eyes, and flattened his palm gently on her belly. "Nothing," he said. "There's nothing I can do. I think we've already established that."

Her first pregnancy had been fine. No morning sickness, even. Marya had come a few weeks earlier than Gaius and Merlin had predicted, and it had taken her all of one day and into the next to give birth, but that wasn't outside the range of normal, and there had been no worries beyond the length of time, for either of them.

Her second pregnancy, therefore, brought nothing but joyful anticipation. But. It hadn't been many weeks after the first alteration to her dresses had become necessary, when the bleeding started. Just a little, every now and then, for a couple of weeks. She hadn't really panicked until the day Merlin collapsed – and she discovered he'd been doing magic on her constantly to prevent the loss of the child, to maintain an adequate level of health for them both, while feverishly researching the spells that would reverse the process and keep the babe where it needed to be, to develop sufficiently to survive its birth. She'd lost their second child before Merlin regained consciousness.

The third time she realized she'd conceived, she'd been nervous. Merlin, even more so. He'd immediately placed several layers of general protection on her – on them both – trying to ensure that everything that could be done, was being done. Magically, medically, nutritionally. For three months after that, they'd dared to hope. Until the bleeding started again, and couldn't be stopped.

The fourth, they hadn't told anyone else about.

Not Marya, who didn't really understand, at the beginning, what it meant to anticipate a sibling. And then, her exuberantly widespread excitement weighted the disappointment and loss Freya felt almost unbearably. Marya's childishly quick acceptance and matter-of-fact conversation about the loss proved painful to Freya, whose heart didn't heal as quickly.

Not Gwen and Arthur, not Gwaine and Enid. Freya felt enough anxiety over a fourth expectancy, she didn't want to see that apprehension in her friends' faces as well. Didn't want their eyes to dip to her midsection with a question every time she saw them.

The fourth had been lost before anyone else had reason to guess.

Merlin blamed himself. Though Gaius had reached the conclusion between the second and third pregnancies that while magic could heal what was already present - broken bones or diseased tissue or pierced organs – it could not form what was not there yet. It could spark a conception, but it could not nurture the myriad complications of each facet of a babe's development. Perhaps if there was a way of determining what went wrong…

"Are you okay?" she said.

He didn't immediately answer, instead moved up next to her, propping his head on his hand to look down at her, drawing the sheet up to her shoulder. He didn't seem angry, or disappointed, or scared. He didn't seem exactly happy, either.

"Were you going to tell me?" he asked.

There was more to his question, though, an implied – _if you lost the child again, before I guessed, were you going to share the grief with me, or try to keep it from me_?

She nodded, mussing her hair beneath her head on the pillow. "I was trying to think of a way," she said. "I didn't know whether to say thank you, or I'm sorry."

Merlin reached an arm around her, pulling her against his chest. Her arms still between them, but now her face rested on his skin. He smelled warm and just a bit salty, and she pressed her lips to his collarbone, the silver charm that hung around his neck on a black cord bumping her cheekbone lightly.

Her fingers brushed his dragon-shaped pendant, the only thing he had from a father he'd never known, the symbol of his dragonlord heritage – and a sudden thought struck her. When Arthur rode to war, he'd leave a son and heir behind. Just in case. Was Merlin thinking about -

"You have _nothing_ to be sorry for," he said, his voice husky and reverberate, as one ear rested on the muscle of his chest. "It's _not_ your fault."

Which he'd said to her before, just as she'd said to him. And neither of them really believed.

To Merlin, with his potent and fantastic power, it probably seemed the ultimate failure, the inability to save his child's life. But even citing their daughter as proof that this process could work, with the two of them, it still felt like her fault, that her body didn't hold and keep and protect each child til the full time was reached.

"We don't know that," she said. "Perhaps it was something about one of the plants, or medicines, something I did –"

"_Don't_ think like that," he said, just as he always did whenever she started to wonder aloud. He drew back so he could drop a kiss on her forehead. "Listen. You are beautiful and perfect. And Marya is beautiful and perfect. I never expected either of you – and if you're happy, then I'm happy."

Freya relaxed slightly to stroke one hand down his chest, down his stomach, back up again. Merlin alone – she couldn't see it. He had so much love to give, everyone, all the time, surely there would have been a line of girls waiting to say yes. She pushed against him gently and he settled onto his back, pulling her with him so that she lay on his chest, looking down at him as he trailed his fingers along the curve of her spine.

_She_ could easily have been alone. There had been no one in Lionys to spark her interest or draw her encouragement of his attention. She might have been Gwaine's unmarried sister yet, keeping house and tending garden…

And never knowing Merlin. Never _having_ him – those eyes like the clearest deepest sea, the hands strong and gentle, the rest of him so generous. She bent down and kissed his mouth as she liked to, bottom lip and then top lip separately. Her hand caressed him again, down his side and his hip, noting that he hadn't dressed.

"If you're happy, then I'm happy," she whispered back, retreating slightly to see him more clearly.

He smiled. Then touched her face, the corner of her jaw, coaxing her back down to kiss him again. This kiss was patient passion, not a collision of delayed desire, as earlier, but an expression and exploration of the depth of love they shared.

And always would. No matter what.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Are you ready?" Arthur said to Percival, his hand on the latch of the door. A formality, only, as he already knew the answer.

Above him on the stair, Percival's bulk nearly obscured the young knight behind him. Sir Kay, raw-boned and muscular, awkward and shy, and surprisingly intelligent. A flaming red-head, too, though his temperament was nearly as habitually composed as Percival's.

Percival nodded. "Sire."

They'd waited until after breakfast to enact judgment on the prisoner. To make sure that the quarters were arranged for both comfort and security, to work out a rotation of trusted guards, to instruct all the men in both precautions and courtesies. The servants were to have no contact; every request was to be approved by the knight on duty first.

But, Arthur wanted Caerleon in no doubt as to who was in charge, in the situation.

He opened the door.

Nodding to the two guards standing to attention from their own lingering breakfast, he and Percival left Kay to mutter a few sentences of explanation and retrieve the keys, and crossed the open floor to Caerleon's cell. Arthur's hand oh-so-casually on the hilt of the sword he did not normally belt around his waist unless he was training or leaving the citadel.

"Morning, Caerleon," he said evenly. Not a greeting, just a statement of fact.

"Took you long enough," the other growled. It looked like he'd neglected the wash-water again, though the dishes on the meal-tray were empty. "Arguing like fish-wives half the night, were you? I see you haven't brought your pet sorcerer with you. Got him chained to the wall in the kennel, maybe? Take him out for a walk and a bit of exercise later? Throw him a bone to reward him for guarding your fancy palace while you were gone?"

This was why Arthur had brought Percival instead of Gwaine. Though he could and did control himself, Merlin was his brother and he wouldn't have let the insult pass without confrontation.

Arthur had to squeeze the hilt of his sword to swallow a challenge of his own. It wasn't as bad as what Uther had first said about the young druid, after all. And one of the last things his father had said to Merlin, before the mandrake enchantment had changed Uther, was, _take care of my son_.

He didn't suppose he had years to persuade Caerleon. He wasn't sure he even had weeks, before the Saxons made their inimical presence in the White Mountains felt.

_You know my father's stance on the druid peoples_, he'd once said to Kilgarrah. Having known Merlin about two days, himself. _You know my father's stance on dragonlords._ Well, yesterday he'd shown Caerleon the druid and the dragonlord. He could only hope the man would allow himself to see that Merlin was _more_.

Arthur held out his free hand, and Kay placed the key in it. Caerleon pushed himself up from the bed as Arthur unlocked and opened the cell door, though none of them entered. Arthur took a step back, pulling a somewhat flattened scroll from the inner pocket of his unbuttoned vest as Caerleon slipped out the door of his cell like a wild thing testing apparent though limited freedom. When the other king made no move to take the parchment, Arthur allowed a slight smile, and gave it a flip in the air – Percival reached in response to the signal, and opened the scroll where Caerleon could see it.

"What is this?" the other king sneered.

Arthur didn't answer, so Caerleon would _have_ to read it. It was obvious what it was.

_ I Caerleon, monarch of my own kingdom, do hereby enter into agreement with the king of Camelot, for myself and my posterity, as follows…_

"You expect me to sign this?" the older man spat disdainfully, far too quickly. Arthur thought he couldn't have gotten past the first line or two – he hadn't even considered the conditions, whether reasonable or not. "To humiliate myself before you?"

Arthur very nearly smiled, though it would have been a tired and maybe sad smile. No, he did not. He didn't even trust the man's signature – not now, not yet. "You refused to meet with me to discuss reaching an understanding," he said. "For years now, you have turned away my emissaries. Instead, you invaded our kingdom, took what did not belong to you."

Caerleon, interestingly enough, did not argue or excuse his actions. "Why is your sorcerer not here to enchant me to your will?" he demanded. "What if I do not sign?"

This time Arthur did smile. Flatly, as Percival drew his sword with a deliberately-prolonged metallic rasp; they'd expected this. Arthur knew that the threat, or even the pretense of following through on it, would not change Caerleon's mind. But perhaps, when faced with the stark truth of his own decision, he would reconsider in the days to come.

"Then you will pay."

"Very well," Caerleon said, sarcastically arrogant. He went down on one knee, then tucked the other beneath him. The guards made no protest, no move to interfere; Kay had explained adequately, then. "Then make it quick."

"Think what you're doing, Caerleon," Arthur said. He had wondered, when considering this move, what he himself would do if faced with this decision – sign a treaty or die. Depended on what he was signing, he'd concluded. "This treaty could seal a truce between us. There would be peace, like there was between your father and mine. Are you really so set against that?"

"I am not my father," Caerleon sneered, on his knees still every inch the barbarian warrior-king. "And you are not Uther."

"No," Arthur said, taking the scroll from Percival and smoothing a crease so it would roll itself up again. "You are right about that."

"Do you really have the guts to kill me?" the older king taunted.

"You leave me no choice," Arthur warned him.  
"You do not choose anything, boy. It is I who choose to die, and I alone." He threw Percival and his bared blade a contemptuous glance over his shoulder. "Now get on with it."

"So be it." Arthur nodded to Percival, who raised his sword –

And slipped it back into its sheath.

Caerleon twisted around to glare at Percival – to glare at Arthur. "What do you mean by –"

Arthur handed him the second scroll, from his pocket. The original, as a polished copy of it had gone out by courier at first light. Caerleon snatched it open and read it swiftly – twice.

_King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot. To the ruling representative of King Caerleon, greetings. I regret to inform you of the capture of your sovereign, in the act of committing crimes within our accepted borders and upon our citizens. Rest assured no harm shall come to your king while he is within our care. However, his return is contingent upon our assurance of…_

Caerleon glared at him. "What is the meaning of this?" he snarled, pitching the sheet to the floor at Arthur's feet. After an awkward pause, Kay stepped forward to retrieve it silently.

"You will not pay for your rejection of peace with your life," Arthur said. _You are not in control, you do not have the right to decide your fate_. "I have a far worse punishment in mind for you."

Perhaps a spark of apprehension or uncertainty in the other's king's dark eyes. Perhaps. "And that is?" he challenged.

Arthur grinned at him. "Mandatory hospitality."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …*…..

Merlin slouched at his writing desk in the library's inner room, head in hand and eyes closed, listening to the soothing murmur of Marya helping Brian with his conjugations of the old language.

_ I shield myself, I shield you, I shield he, she, it, we, they…_

He really did miss being able to talk things like this over with Gaius – science and magic and medicine – til they found a solution together. And he was always a bit discouraged when he was tired, even though he was tired for a _very_ good reason this morning – he still could taste her kiss and hear her sigh against his ear and feel her body move with his as they fit together so perfectly it still astonished him after all these years…

Merlin sighed, rubbing his forehead. Even that paradise wasn't without worry. His wife, their unborn child. His Arthur, their Camelot. His clan, their –

He felt one of the children ease up onto his knee, sliding between him and the desk.

"Father?" Marya said.

Merlin sat back in his chair, pulling her more comfortably into the crook of his elbow. Across the room, Brian was sitting cross-legged on the table they used for lessons, occupied with picking apart each strand of his feather-quill.

"What is it?" he said, flicking the end of her short braid. She leaned forward over the book he'd left open before him on the desk.

"What are you working on?" she said, and he couldn't tell if that was the question she'd originally come to him to ask, or if she'd gotten side-tracked, or if she'd only come to be with him, and finding a question was a good excuse for it.

"The druids' disease," he answered.

She narrowed blue eyes at him over her shoulder. "But I thought they were better – you came home. Are you going to have to go away again?"

"They are better," he said. "But I still don't know why they got sick, and if I don't know what caused it, I don't know how to stop it happening again, do you see?"

Marya turned one page idly, swinging her feet dangling on either side of his knee, scuffing her shoes on the floor. "So you're going to have to leave again?"

He opened his mouth to say, _of course not_ – but that wasn't true – _Sweetheart, I don't know – _

That wasn't true either.

"Yes," he said. "I don't know when – maybe very soon – Arthur will need to leave Camelot for a while, and I will go with him."

"To go fight?" she asked, abandoning the book to turn sideways in his lap, pulling her legs up into the skirt of her dress and leaning against him.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, amused.

"Because King Arthur almost always fights when he goes away," Marya answered. "Lucan says so."

"A wise man is always ready to fight," he said, "and always hopes it isn't necessary."

"And this time?" She reached up to pull on the cord at his throat, til she found the little silver dragon to play with, twist and rub.

"I don't want you to worry about me," he said softly. "Whatever happens, I love you and I'm proud of you. No matter where I am or what I'm doing, understand?"

"King Arthur will keep you safe," she said. "Because you keep him safe, right? And both of you can make sure no one hurts the druids."

He began gently, "It wasn't because someone –"

_Oh_. What if it wasn't a _contagion_, but a _curse_?

Merlin stood, lifting his daughter with him, one arm around her ribs, setting her carefully on the desktop. "I'm looking in the wrong books," he told her.

That news didn't bother her. "Mama's worried too, I can tell," she informed him as he stepped to the bookshelf.

"Mama has the stone that can call me if she needs me," he told her, skimming the shelf of leather-bound tomes.

"Mama always needs you, but she says that stone is for an emergency," Marya reminded him.

"Father told me a story," Brian said, his voice coming nearer, as Merlin pulled a book to thumb through and discard. "He said you and him wrote notes to each other and made animals deliver them. He said the turtle took forever and the rat got lost and the cat wouldn't listen and the dog bit the cook and the horse pooped in the hall and –"

Marya giggled and Merlin snorted – of course Arthur had told his sons _that_. He remembered Nimueh sending the afanc to poison the water, but the druids used neither well nor cistern, but flowing streams, how could someone –

"And a bird was the best messenger of all."

_Oh_, again.

Merlin whirled to stare at the two children – a bit taken aback at his reaction, as though they expected to be scolded, for the story or their negligence of lessons.

"An animal," he said. "Or a bird."

The informal pets of the druid children came and went daily; especially interesting were the ones who seemed sick or hurt. He'd ruled out any natural disease contracted by a non-human host, but – someone could easily have anchored a curse in a bird and sent it into the clan.

If he could find which curse, he could make a totem to repel any other attempts. He beamed at them.

"Thank you, you've helped me find part of the answer." And now, he was too impatient – and a glance at the marked candle showed he didn't have much time before Arthur wanted him again. "Keep very still, please," he said, spreading out his hands in a gesture that sparked immediate pleasure and excitement in the expressions of his students.

Then his magic spilled out into the room in a rolling tempest.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Lancelot seemed very optimistic about those new troops," Gwen observed to her sister-in-law as they walked the corridor together. Well, stalked, in Morgana's case – however she managed that at six-and-a-half months pregnant.

Morgana shook her head, not answering. Her gaze was fixed on their two daughters, skipping hand in hand ahead of them in the hall, her fine black brows drawn together. Gwen stifled a sigh and attempted a more comfortable topic.

"Is Nenna excited to be a big sister?" she asked. "Bethan never got the chance, but she certainly plays little-mother to her brothers as often as they let her."

"She won't have an easy time of it," Morgana said distantly. "We both spoil her so, and soon she'll have to share the attention."

Nenna was even more proper than the princess who was her cousin and new playmate. She had Lancelot's quiet brown eyes and her mother's raven curls. Reserved with all the strangers in Camelot – at three years old she didn't remember them really from her last visit – Gwen hadn't seen even a hint yet of the tantrums Morgana claimed could be ear-piercing, at times.

"Do you want a boy this time, or another girl?" Gwen said, as they turned to descend a stair – slowly, as the little girls were taking it.

Morgana tossed her head. "I know Lancelot would love a son, though he claims to be perfectly content either way." Gwen noticed the fond smile that softened her sister's hard anxiety. "So if it's a girl, we'll have to think of a name quickly."

"And if it's a boy?" Gwen nodded as Bethan paused at a doorway to send a questioning look back at her mother – yes, the library.

"I was thinking 'Galahad'," Morgana said. "Or – 'Mordred', maybe, I'm not sure. I knew a boy once named Mordred, but Lancelot seems to prefer Galahad."

Gwen took a deep careful breath – as clean as the serving staff kept every inch of useful living space in the citadel, this room always smelled like dust. And ink and parchment and sunlight and shade – she loved the smell of this room. Though she also loved the smell of their bedchamber, a homey mix of fresh flowers and the polishes used on Arthur's gear. And the dining room, fresh bread and roast meat and tangy herbs, and the throne room, warm wood and beeswax and –

"Good morning, Geoffrey," she said, startling the old man nodding over half-a-dozen open books on his desk. "Or, good afternoon, I almost should say."

Wispy gray eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Your Highness, my lady," the old record-keeper said. "Ah – King Arthur already sent for the maps, and I finished the copies of the missive to our allies an hour ago…"

"Yes, Geoffrey, I know," Gwen said, lingering as Morgana followed the girls past the towering shelves lined with Geoffrey's life's collection, and a good bit of Arthur's contribution. "We came to see Merlin for a bit before Arthur's meeting."

Geoffrey gave her a dignified nod. He hadn't been eager to share his space, but after many reassurances – and even a few proofs – that the magic performed in Merlin's room would not spill out to his part of the library, he'd endured the arrangement with a patient sort of grace.

"_Mama_!" Bethan exclaimed, and Gwen hurried to join them.

Nenna had both hands fisted in the skirt of Morgana's white silk-and-lace gown; Morgana herself wore a look of wry and mild envy, while Bethan bounced in place and clasped her hands in glee.

Merlin stood in the middle of the room, hands outstretched, the ends of his hair and his clothing blowing a bit in a wind that came from no opening to the outside air, as books and parchments whirled around him, pages flipping as though someone's thumb loosed each page a dozen per second.

Marya and Brian were, she saw, perched on Merlin's desk, _laughing_.

Then Merlin lunged, snatching one rather tattered-looking tome, pulling it to his chest and hunching over it earnestly, as the rest stilled in place, hovering.

"What was _that_?" Gwen said into the sudden quiet, with dry amusement.

"Mama!" Brian called, waving from the desktop.

At the same time as Bethan clamored, "Do it again!"

Merlin's head shot up, his expression startled and sheepish – with a golden glance around, the books settled down to whatever surface was just below.

"Summoning spell," Morgana said. "Only – an extremely complicated one. You're showing off, Merlin."

"No, saving time," he said. "Come on in."

He stepped toward them, stumbling over one of the books he'd let drop; with an impatient _tsk_ing sound and gesture, the rogue books lifted and soared back toward their shelves. He had to duck twice – Brian stood on the desk to try to catch one of the flying volumes, and Marya grabbed the back hem of his tunic, presumably to keep him from falling.

"I think," Merlin explained, "someone inflicted that disease upon the druid clan. A curse specifically targeting – oh, class dismissed, Marya, Brian."

"Can we go to the garden?" Marya said, letting go of Brian's clothing and hopping down from her father's desk. "Auntie Gwen?"

"Yes – and you can take Bethan and Nenna for us, please?" Gwen said, glancing at Morgana, who nodded.

"Okay. Come on, Bethie, Nenna." Marya reached for their hands.

"I'll race you!" Brian sang, dancing on his tiptoes to the door. For a moment little Nenna resisted, staring at Merlin in fascination.

Bethan said to her matter-of-factly, "It's just magic – your mama does magic too, right?"

Nenna relented, and Marya gave Gwen and Morgana a little curtsy on her way past them. Gwen smiled and patted her shoulder and Morgana flicked her braid playfully.

"A curse specifically targeting?" Gwen prompted Merlin, coming close enough to peer at the pages of the book resting open on his long fingers. The text was indecipherable to her, embellished with a complication of knotted lines and curls that made her wonder if they were symbols or representations themselves, somehow.

"Those with magic," he said, tilting the book so she could see, as if he'd forgotten that she wouldn't be able to understand what was written there. "It wouldn't have been hard to do, to anchor it to a bird for instance, and send it into the camp. Especially if one of the children found it, and was infected by the curse without even being aware of the magic – sensing that trace, especially on a living creature, would require some experience in magic and you wouldn't necessarily expect a child to –"

"Merlin," Gwen said.

He gave her a quizzical look, and she smiled, shaking her head. He looked tired, faint dark smudges under his eyes – she reached one arm impulsively around his back to give him a gentle squeeze.

"I'm sorry," she said. Sorry that he had to come back from a month battling disease among the druids to yet another battle. A major one, she gathered from Arthur's attitude, to be twice foretold. A deadly one.

"It's always something," he said, giving her one of his surprisingly-sweet smiles. "And we knew this would be coming, one day."

"Do you know who's behind the curse?" Morgana asked, and Merlin looked as Gwen did; Morgana had wandered to Merlin's desk and stood examining the books and papers on its surface absently.

"That would be my next concern," Merlin said. "The cure has already been worked, and if I'm right about the cause I can prevent it happening again – and then track down whoever is responsible."

"It's odd, though," Gwen said. "That anyone would target a druid camp. I mean, they're peaceful people, it's odd to think of them having enemies."

Merlin's mouth twisted wryly, and he spoke more to Morgana than Gwen. "There are still those who hate and fear magic. What they don't understand or can't control."

She gave them a brief but rather bitter smirk in response.

"Yes, but to _use_ magic to strike at those who _have_ magic?" Gwen persisted. "It just – doesn't make sense to me."

Merlin looked at her a moment, then lifted his head to gaze into empty air. "Unless…" he said distinctly, "the druids weren't really the target. Not the ultimate target, anyway."

"What do you mean?" Gwen said.

"It was… about two months after I came to Camelot," Merlin said, and glanced over at Morgana. "Remember? The High Priestess Nimueh had poisoned our water. People were dying, but it wasn't the people that Nimueh cared about, either way. Gaius said…" He paused, remembering. "That she attacked Uther to humiliate him and undermine his reign, while testing my power and skill."

Gwen politely refrained from mentioning the high priestess that had ruled the island after Nimueh. "But the High Priestess Alice has been cordial to Camelot. Distant, but cordial."

Merlin also refrained from mentioning the name that was sure to cause Morgana consternation. "And Mary Collins? She attacked you and Freya, to hurt me and Arthur."

"But what does that have to do with –"

"I wonder if the magic-user who placed the curse didn't care about the _druids_," Merlin said, slowly, as if he was thinking aloud. "But the _magic_. What if… the Saxons have already struck a blow at Albion's defense?"

**A/N: Again, some dialogue from ep.4.5 "His Father's Son".**

_**And**_**, I managed a chapter with all four povs!**


	5. Foe and Friend

**Chapter 5: Foe and Friend**

"Make me a copy of this list, please, Lancelot," Arthur said, re-rolling the scroll of names his knight had chosen to ride north immediately. "I've added a post-script to Leon's message – any men or supplies Godwyn or Olaf can contribute, he is to march them around the foothills of the mountains of Isgaard, rather than bringing them here first. That should save a week, at least, if not two. Gwaine, get off the map."

The long-haired knight shifted minimally from his tabletop perch. A smaller rectangular one in this room, used for semi-formal dining and select-member council meetings. Arthur moved the map out from under Gwaine, re-anchoring the edges with a candle-holder and his belt knife.

"If it happens that we're ready to depart Camelot with the remainder of the army," he added, "not counting the rear-guard, Gwaine I want you to stay to wait on troops from Lionys and Nemeth."

"You seek a war with Cenred?" Caerleon rasped sarcastically, moving out from his place by the wall, between Tristan and Percival. "The warlord's son taking the offensive. Uther wouldn't rest until he conquered Camelot - you won't rest til you hold all the land of Albion, is it?"

"You mistake me entirely, Caerleon," Arthur said calmly, not protesting the interruption. He knew he would have to deal with such outbursts, allowing the captive monarch the freedom to roam under guard. "I have no reason to interfere with Cenred or his land… though he has also rebuffed my attempts to treat with him."

"And yet you send an army to his lands," Caerleon said, suspicion bright in his dark eyes.

"We have had warning that a Saxon army makes ready to invade," Arthur said.

"And you'd sooner have a war fought on someone else's land, is that it," Caerleon sneered.

"No," Arthur said only. And, giving a look to Percival, he turned his back on his prisoner-guest.

"May it please Your Highness to remember," Percival said politely enough, giving the captive royal a short bow and a gestured invitation to the side, "the man who cannot hold his peace in council is soonest asked to leave."

Caerleon growled, and Arthur turned his head to hide a smile. There was nothing in Percival's statement to argue with – that probably irritated the man – and Percival had quickly gotten good at formulating such comments. There would be nothing said in the meeting that he wouldn't be communicating to the other rulers anyway – Caerleon could stay to hear as long as he kept his mouth shut.

"And I, Arthur?" Tristan said, sauntering forward to lean on the back of one of the chairs which no one was using. Arthur wasn't so formal as to require his men to stand when he the king was standing, but somehow no one felt like sitting today. "Have you orders for me?"

"I'd like you to leave with the couriers to Bayard of Mercia, and to Lot," Arthur said. "You'll be my liaison with those two kingdoms – I don't expect them to fight with us, necessarily, but if they defend their borders adequately, that will cover our west flank."

"That west flank always was your best side," a uniquely irreverent voice spoke from the doorway, as footsteps signaled the arrival of more than one.

"Glad you could join us, Merlin," Arthur said, lifting his gaze from the papers spread on the table, and one eyebrow at the sorcerer – with Arthur's wife and sister. Damn. There went his opportunity for a snide comment about punctuality.

Merlin gave him a look – with his head ducked a little as if accepting he deserved the censure – and his mouth curved to show he didn't care a bit. He had a large book tucked under one elbow, binding worn and frayed, pages ragged-edged.

"What did we miss?" he said, pulling out the next chair but one to Arthur's, setting the book down on the table and seating himself.

Morgana stalked to Lancelot's side and immediately leaned on flattened palms over the map. Guinevere moved to a quietly supportive position between her and Arthur.

"Lancelot leaves with fifty men tomorrow," Arthur said. "To fortify Stawell into a garrison – that will be our base from which to launch our defense in the White Mountains. Morgana, you are free to come and go as you choose, of course, but I wish you would consider staying here." Without straightening her body, his sister lifted her head to give him an intense green-eyed glare. "At least temporarily," he amended.

"When the main body of the army is ready to ride out," Guinevere said evenly, addressing Morgana as she stepped to the table and twined her arm about Arthur's, "perhaps we can accompany them." Morgana considered; Lancelot put his arm around her quietly, but his hand ended on the side of her prominent belly, and she nodded in acquiescence.

"Now," Arthur said, addressing the map, "to reach Camelot, the Saxons will have no choice but to cross the White Mountains. If we estimate a couple of thousand men, and assume they outnumber us five to one –" He glanced up to gauge their reactions – his fighting men were nodding thoughtfully; when your enemy's numbers were unknown, it was best to over-estimate, than the alternative. "The only pass that gives passage to an army that size is here."

"Not Dinas Emrys?" Gwaine spoke up. Half-serious. Merlin made a face at him, before meeting Arthur's eyes.

Arthur said, "If they reach Dinas Emrys they are already on our border and we cannot strategically retreat without giving them our land. Fighting on it –" he glanced at Caerleon sulking by the wall – "to retake it. Dinas Emrys would be something of a last resort."

And the citadel itself the very last bastion of defense. But if it came to that, there would be little left to fight for but selling their lives as dearly as they could.

"I know this pass well," Lancelot said pensively. "The path is bounded by cliffs on either side."

"I've been through it," Tristan added. "One of the hills nearby has earthworks that provide good shelter – Badon Hill. Something of a smugglers' secret, though."

"Have you ever seen it, Morgana?" Arthur said. "Could it be the site of your vision?"

She pressed her lips together and shook her head, admitting, "I could not say for sure."

Well. Regardless, it looked to be the best place, geographically speaking. "That's where we'll meet them," he said. "Now, we may be outnumbered, but if we don't let them outflank us, we can hold the pass. Merlin." The dragonlord lifted his eyes from the map again. "How long can Aithusa stay aloft, to keep guard against any such maneuvers on the part of the enemy?"

Merlin considered. "Several hours at a time," he said. "All day if he has to – if he's only gliding, watching from a height." Arthur and Merlin both ignored a very rude noise from Caerleon, which drew the others' attention and disapproval. "But he'll want to fight, Arthur, that's his destiny."

Arthur nodded. "As long as he can do both – and keep the battle to a single front. That's a day's journey from Stawell so the supply line will need to be kept open, but the Saxons must push us back to have access to any supplies they haven't brought with them. An army that size cannot be supplied indefinitely, not isolated by the mountains. If we can hold out long enough, they'll be forced to retreat."

"You don't envision complete and utter victory?" Caerleon sneered.

"The man who does so is a fool and has lost before he's even begun to fight," Arthur returned. "It may take decades and a dozen battles to protect Albion from invasion."

"I'll take the complete and utter victory, though," Gwaine volunteered with a roguish grin, and Tristan nodded wryly.

"Lancelot, at which point is the pass at its narrowest?" Arthur said.

"Here, sire." Lancelot put his finger down on the map.

"And what do they call this place?" Arthur's map didn't have a proper name inked in, the gap between the two upside-down V's was too tiny. The peak next to it, less than an inch northeast but maybe as much as twenty miles distant in reality, was marked _Mons Badonicus_. Mount Badon. Tristan's smugglers' hideout.

"Camlann, sire," Lancelot said.

"Then it is at Camlann that we make our stand." Arthur glanced around the circle of his most trusted friends, and ended with Merlin. "Is Aithusa still at the coast?"

"He was flying from the northwestern coast," Merlin said. "It may take him a week to reach the White Mountains."

"Do you suppose Kilgarrah would leave Dinas Emrys to take a temporary post at Camlann? To watch the pass until Lancelot's men get there?"

"I can certainly ask," Merlin said, hesitated, then added, speaking in that way he had sometimes, as if they were alone in the room. "Arthur… I won't order him to."

Arthur allowed the corner of a smile to show. "I wouldn't ask it of you. Is there anything else?" He'd asked the question openly of all who'd gathered, but it was Merlin who answered.

"I have a – possible concern."

"What is it?"

Merlin laid both hands flat on the book he brought, setting his jaw in a way that reminded Arthur of Gaius, having a theory that would sound both unbelievable and unproven, feeling honor-bound to mention it anyway. And mostly, being right.

"I believe the most likely cause of the plague among the druids is a curse," he said. "Not only specifically but _deliberately_ targeting their strongest magic-users."

"The strongest magic-users?" Morgana said. "Why didn't you get sick, then?"

"Iseldir warned me in his message a month ago, of that detail to the plague," Merlin replied. "I was able to enchant an amulet for my protection before I got there – one also for him, it was all I had time for."

Arthur said slowly, "But who would –"

"But why?" Gwaine interrupted more quickly.

Merlin gave Arthur a glance from under the fringe of black hair on his forehead. "Iseldir's clan is closest to the pass Dinas Emrys guards. And – it is my clan."

Arthur lowered himself into the chair pushed back from the head of the table for everyone's map-reading convenience. "You suppose the Saxons had something to do with it?" he said.

"I could be wrong." Merlin shrugged uncomfortably. "But I just… don't think it can be unrelated. Not something like this, and the _timing_…"

"But druids don't fight with magic," Gwaine protested.

Just behind him, Tristan commented, "Only outsiders like the Saxons would consider the druids' magic a threat."

"If they use their powers to heal our fighters, our army," Merlin said, "it gives us a considerable advantage – one the Saxons might seek to neutralize before the fighting begins."

"Merlin," Arthur said, at the dark flicker of an idea, the beginning of a shadow on a dim path that might prove to be a bottomless pit, a treacherous chasm. "We have had no word of Saxon scouts."

Merlin shook his head slowly. Admitting what Arthur was realizing.

"Why is that important?" Gwen said calmly. Her hand was on his shoulder; he couldn't remember the moment of her placing it there.

"Because," Arthur said. "For the commander of their army to know the druids' magic, and location – even to choose the one clan that Albion's dragonlord claims connection to –"

"A spy," Gwaine said. "A traitor."

"Who?" Percival asked. Arthur glanced up to see that his biggest knight and Caerleon had ventured closer. He shook his head as if that would help his thoughts fall into place.

"It's not exactly secret, is it?" Merlin said. "Where I'm from? Where my clan ranges? That the druids have magic?"

"Gwaine," Arthur said, dropping his head to his hand to massage his temples with his eyes closed. "What are the odds that Cenred is involved?" One row of uneven upside-down V's separated Cenred's land from the Saxon's southern-most harborage on the coast.

"I wouldn't bet against you there," Gwaine said seriously. "Cenred's just the sort of weasel to sell out his countrymen for exclusion from the invasion. But… who did he get to curse the druids?"

"I am sure we will find out," Arthur said grimly; he could see a similar feeling hardening the blue of Merlin's eyes to ice, "sooner or later."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin wasn't sleeping.

Marya was, and had been for several hours. Freya was now, finally, also – he could see her dark wavy hair spread across the pillow, one hand stretched out onto the sheet where he should be lying.

He knew - even though he'd been in a deep meditative state since Marya had quieted in the next room - because the sounds of his wife cleaning up after their dinner, tidying their quarters, preparing some of the ingredients or common-use medicines, distantly noted, had died down. And he'd paused to stretch a bit, watch her for a bit, before returning to work.

Hands empty, and eyes shut.

It was a variation on the memory-sharing spell he'd done before. On Arthur's knights before re-taking the citadel… on Freya in the winding alleys of Lionys… once on Camelot's blacksmith to catch a rogue alchemist. Merlin had conducted every test Gaius taught him, this month, on the sick and the already-dead, both. On blood, on stomach contents, other bodily substances even less pleasant. There was no physical evidence, here, for him to test.

So he studied his memories. Examined each examination for anything that was overlooked in the rush to save a life, with even the vaguest trace of magic. As Arthur said, they'd probably find out sooner or later, but Merlin would just as soon have an idea of who they were facing, at least, sooner.

Someone he knew? Someone he'd met, even briefly? Someone strong, evidently, and ruthless – though that could be an acquired trait. And mercenary in the extreme, to aid an enemy of everyone. Though that also could be an acquired trait.

He kept coming back to the priestesses, though maybe that was unfair. Edwin and Tauren had struck at innocents to reach their goals, and he'd met dozens of magic-users wielding small and petty powers for selfish gain. But this scale of an attack – fourteen dead, and at least as many sick but cured – made him think of Nimueh. Of Morgause, and Mary Collins.

If he had the carrier of the curse, he was sure he could extrapolate the caster's identity – but after a month and if the druids themselves hadn't realized that one of their pets had been _sent_…

The later it got, the harder Merlin found it to concentrate. Not because he was tired – though he was – or unfocused, but because his magic seemed alert to something else. Perhaps the approach of midnight… He decided to remain awake until that time of high magic was past, then slide into bed beside his wife.

Only – now it seemed a tedious waste of time simply to sit.

He uncurled himself from his chair and rose to pad about their chamber, checking the herbs and roots and distillations – but couldn't keep his mind occupied with cataloguing what was there, or guessing what Freya intended with each.

What, then?

He shoved his feet into his boots but didn't bother with any other outer garment, moving silently down the hall and a short stair to the physician's chambers. Kept very nearly exactly as Gaius had left it, two years ago – he hadn't seen any reason for change, he and Freya were both used to the old man's idiosyncratic arrangements. Except for the fact that the court physician – himself – had separate family quarters, and his old room, the back room, was unoccupied. Waiting for an apprentice of his own, maybe.

His hand was on the latch of the door when his ears caught the clatter of armor – distant, but clear, and somehow urgent. Somehow, not just a sleepy guard stumbling at the wrong moment. Merlin turned and started down the stair.

A guard dashed into view at the foot, caught his momentum with a hand on the wall and started to mount two at a time, lifting his head – to see Merlin descending already.

"Emrys!" he gasped. "Come quickly! Travelers – attacked – need physician!"

"Where?" Merlin demanded, skipping steps himself in a downward-leap.

"Guest-chamber – next to Sir Lancelot – Lady Morgana!"

Merlin sprinted, leaving the guard to catch up with him in a fainter rattle of metal. He gulped the cool night air of early spring as he emerged from sheltering walls and doors – and he might be chilled in just his shirt-sleeves if not for the warming effect of the exertion – he vaulted over the low wall that separated the covered walkway from the torchlit courtyard.

A night attendant was hurrying from the stables to take the horses of the newly-arrived, while another red-cloaked guard held a torch for his comrade, arms burdened with the form of – a woman, Merlin guessed. The man behind them, several steps down on the main stair, turned at the sound of Merlin's boots on the cobblestones.

Merlin didn't slow, even as recognition struggled to clarity. He knew this man, even in rough travel clothing. Knew the thick curly chestnut hair the man braided in a club down the back of his neck, as was the peculiar fashion in his kingdom… Nemeth.

"Prince Mark!" Merlin gasped, taking the stair two and three at a time to catch up with the other; the visitor didn't slow to wait for him, but impatiently followed the knight carrying his companion. "My lord!"

They reached the level floor of a corridor, and Mark spared him a glance over his shoulder – then another longer one. "Oh – court physician," he said brusquely. "Am I right? Emrys – Merlin Emrys."

"Yes." Merlin gulped to catch his breath. It had been a few years since he'd been introduced to the man, and Mark could of course be forgiven for not recognizing him. A bridegroom meets many people on his wedding day, after all.

"What's happened?" he said.

"Long story." Mark added, as the first guard opened the door of the guest chamber and stood aside, "She's not hurt, exactly, it's just been…"

The second guard, burdened with a nearly-unconscious passenger, turned sideways to enter the room, and the torchlight fell upon the pale face visible in the hood of her cloak, her own hair braided back from her face.

"Mithian!" Merlin blurted, just as Mark stumbled on the threshold beside him, and Merlin reached to catch the prince, Mithian's husband, chosen from among the ranks of Rodor's best and brightest by king and bride, both. "Are you hurt?" he demanded immediately.

Mark shook his head, leaning against the wall just inside the door. "Just tired. See to my wife, Emrys, please?"

Merlin made sure Mark was not about to collapse, before crossing the room to the bedside as the guard laid the princess carefully on the red satin bedcover.

"When has she last eaten, or slept?" he said, gently testing the skin of the princess' arm for signs of dehydration, checking her pulse and her pupils' response to the light.

"Not much, the last three days," Mark admitted in a low voice. "What we could, when we could."

It was a four-day ride to Nemeth's capital city, with good weather and no pressing business.

"Bring blankets," Merlin ordered the guard who lingered at the bedside. "And light a fire – we must keep her warm. Then water, broth, and wine. Wake one of the female chamber-maids to attend her."

"Is she going to be all right?" Mark said. Sounding very young. Lost and alone.

Merlin normally wouldn't give assurances before a complete examination; it depended in part on what happened to them, her mental or emotional state following their ordeal. But he imagined himself in Mark's boots, seeing his own wife so pale and unresponsive.

"I don't see why not," he answered. "I'll do all I can for her." Mark slumped a bit in relief, and Merlin added to the guard at the door, "Has His Majesty been informed?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur sat at the small writing desk in the antechamber of his quarters, doing his best to stay calm – and quiet - for the sake of his wife, still asleep in their large bed.

Mark and Mithian, in the dead of night. What did it mean? He picked up a quill, toying with it thoughtfully, crossing his unlaced boots at the ankle on his desktop.

For the first time in a long time, he felt the desire to speak with his father. To ask if Uther had ever found ruling thus. Months and months of paralyzing boredom, when he felt absolutely superfluous, listening to the council natter over miniscule details, patrolling peaceful borders – having to let a second buck bound away unharmed because yesterday's hunt and last week's hunt had successfully stocked the palace larders…

And then, in the course of one week. Imminent war, one royal hostage, and two more fugitive from –

The door eased open and Merlin slipped inside – dressed much as Arthur was, dark trousers and thin white shirt open at the neck – followed by Prince Mark, still in travel-stained clothes and muddy boots, though it looked like someone had given him a chance at a quick wash of hands and face. Arthur dropped his boots to the floor and stood.

"How is Mithian?" Arthur asked. Though if both Merlin and Mark were here – and not in hopeless tears, both of them – he could assume an optimistic prognosis.

"She's weak and she's clearly exhausted, but she'll be fine," Merlin said.

"Good," Arthur said, ushering both of them to the larger table – more chairs, and further away from the darkened bedchamber, also. "What happened, Mark? Unless you'd rather wait for the morning…"

"Odin," Mark spat. "They came at night without warning." He rubbed one hand over his unshaven jaw, adding bitterly, "We were unprepared. We could not hold them."

"This was three days ago, you say," Merlin put in, and Mark nodded, dropping to the seat the sorcerer pulled out for him, as Merlin and Arthur did the same.

"His men. They showed no mercy. He cut us down like… corn."

Arthur understood a bit how the prince felt. To leave his men, his home, his king behind – even to ride for help, even to save his wife – it was guilt he heard in the other's man's voice, and anger.

"Odin has no care for the suffering he causes," Arthur said. He'd been on the receiving end of the older ruler's attention before, too.

"And King Rodor?" Merlin asked, leaning his elbows on his knees, which caused the dragon charm around his neck to swing through his open collar.

"He was badly wounded." Arthur reacted immediately, muscles tensing as though he could jump up and do something _now_, and Mark noticed. "Oh – a deep cut to his upper right arm. Not life-threatening, but he was loosing blood as we escaped, and he was weakened."

"Where is he now?" Arthur asked, running through the terrain between Camelot and Nemeth in his mind – the ruins of the old watchtower, the river –

"He made it almost as far as the border," Mark answered. "We took refuge at the ancient tomb of King Lother, but he could not continue any further. I left the three knights who escaped with us to guard him and rode here with Mithian – on his orders. But Odin knew my wife's father was injured, his men will be searching for us. It's only a matter of time before they find him."

If they hadn't already. Arthur bit his tongue and didn't voice the pessimistic observation. For the king and his only daughter and her husband, Odin would have every spare man and every experienced tracker – and the tomb was not exactly unknown. There were few other structures along the route, and Camelot the naturally ally for Rodor to turn to.

Possibly, even, the ally Odin intended Nemeth to turn to? Which meant Arthur needed to consider the possibility that Rodor's escape, and Mark and Mithian's arrival, was not unplanned.

Damn it to hell, what absolutely abysmal timing the man had.

Arthur said only, "I see."

"My father-in-law is an old man," Mark said, and there was desperation in his eyes. A desperation Arthur had felt before, as the heir to the throne with the king in danger of his life.

Some sons were eager to rule. It was to Mark's credit, Arthur thought, that he _wasn't_.

"He cannot fend for himself; they cannot last long, hunted and in hiding, and his wound… We have no one else to turn to but you, Arthur."

"I understand how you must be feeling," Arthur said.

He remembered a time long ago, the burning pain of a mercenary's arrow, the smoke of a smuggler's wagon, having to choose shelter and care for those he was responsible for, over the impulse to ride to his city and face his enemy. The king's life was of first consideration – with Rodor in Camelot and recovering, they could discuss Nemeth after… ye gods, and Camlann.

But he added, "And I will do everything in my power to help you." Whatever that turned out to be. He felt Merlin's eyes on him, but didn't look away from the prince.

"Thank you, my lord," Mark said, with relief.

"Now, return to your wife and get some rest," Arthur said. "You will be informed first thing in the morning, what we have decided to do."

Mark nodded, rising as Arthur did. "I will be ready to ride at first light," he declared, glancing at Merlin, then nodded again at Arthur to affirm his resolve.

Arthur followed him to the door, motioned to the guard to accompany their guest. "Sleep well," he said.

"Sleep fast," Mark returned, an old soldier's saying, with a smile that was more a grimace.

Arthur closed the door and faced Merlin.

"That tomb is three leagues from our border. We are Rodor's only hope."

"A campaign to retake Nemeth would take weeks," Merlin observed neutrally. "And there would be casualties among our troops and Nemeth's… Arthur, we can't do that. Not now. We can't do both."

All ye gods together, now he had to _choose_.

A memory struck him – the first of Uther's war-councils he actually remembered. His father speaking to Agravaine, discussing an attack on General Vortigern, the likelihood of other rulers taking advantage of his distraction and the deployment of his troops in one direction to move against his back…

Arthur paced the length of the table, turned and stalked back to the door.

"If we leave Odin in Nemeth and march the bulk of our forces north," Arthur said, "he could very well take the opportunity to strike at Camelot. And _if_ we achieve victory against the Saxons, we could turn around only to face another war, reclaiming our home." _Again_, he added mentally.

"Odin may take several months firming his hold on Nemeth," Merlin said. "It may occupy him until we can push the Saxons back. And the citadel will not fall so easily – between Gwen and Morgana they'll carve Odin for dinner if he tries."

Arthur permitted himself a grim smile at the idea of his wife and sister facing the enemy king. "And perhaps that time will allow Odin the opportunity to so tighten his grip on Nemeth that it takes the rest of the year and the remaining blood of our men to oust him."

"But if you rally our knights to retake Nemeth," Merlin added softly, his eyes following Arthur's short futile journey, back and forth, "the Saxons could take Camlann and Dinas Emrys both and flood our northern border. I don't think the dragons alone can stop them… though they'd die trying."

Arthur stopped in his tracks, at the tone of Merlin's comment. He'd never considered the possible death of either of the dragons, they seemed so formidable.

"I think…" he said slowly, turning to lean on his hands on the table, across from Merlin, "we need to rescue Rodor. I can't ignore an ally in trouble, even to focus on holding off an enemy force threatening all our allies."

Merlin nodded. "The man has a right to influence your decision – Nemeth or the north. Perhaps he would be willing to leave his kingdom in enemy hands temporarily. But then, we could not look to Nemeth for reinforcements at Camlann."

"Arthur?"

They both turned to see Guinevere emerge from the sleeping chamber – looking utterly lovely, to Arthur's eyes – and Merlin stood, in respect for his queen. Her long white nightdress was demure enough for Merlin's company, embroidered at the modest neckline with dainty tan-yellow leaves, but her long curly hair was tied in a tousled braid over one shoulder, and her feet bare below her hem. Arthur went to her, taking her in his arms for a quick gentle hug.

"What is it?" she continued. "What's happened?"

"Mark and Mithian arrived not yet an hour ago," Arthur told her. She pulled back in his arms, looking past his shoulder at Merlin by the table, and he moved with her as she headed dazedly for a chair. "Odin has invaded Nemeth. Rodor is wounded, hidden but trapped near the border."

"And you're discussing what should be done," she guessed, sinking to the seat beside Merlin.

"I cannot send an army to the north and to the west at once," Arthur said. "But I will not abandon Rodor to capture, either."

She hummed agreement, gazing thoughtfully into the air above the table. "Why don't you have Leon take care of Odin?" she said.

Merlin's eyebrows rose and his lips quirked as he looked from Guinevere to Arthur.

"What?" he said, though he began to grasp the full significance of her suggestion.

"If Rodor can be brought safely here," she continued, her deep brown eyes finding his, "you can send an ultimatum to Odin demanding his withdrawal – Leon will be gathering troops from Godwyn and Olaf anyway, right? He's closer to Odin's kingdom than we are, and just as close to Nemeth."

Merlin was grinning broadly. "I _was_ sorry we woke you, Gwen," he said dryly. She smiled and reached to squeeze his hand in acknowledgement of his appreciation.

"Excellent idea," Arthur said in satisfaction, the sensation of relief from responsibility making him feel euphorically optimistic, for a moment. "Now, our only chance of getting Rodor back is with speed and stealth, with just a small group of knights…" He consulted his mental map of the territory again, almost missing the look his wife and his sorcerer shared. "What?"

"Don't suppose we could talk you into staying here and sending someone else?" Merlin said lightly. "This mission…"

"Is too dangerous, so I shouldn't go," Arthur finished for him, in the same tone.

"Yeah – you're thinking the same thing?"

"No." Arthur gave him a mock-stern look. "I'm thinking that's exactly what you always say. But here I am." He spread his arms to demonstrate. "Two legs, two arms, my own teeth." He bared them at his sorcerer in amusement.

"Arthur," Gwen chided him. "Odin has long been after your blood. If he finds out about this, you could have an entire army at your back."

"That's true," Arthur said. It had occurred to him that Odin could have permitted Mark and Mithian's escape to set a trap for Arthur. "But, Odin doesn't know where Rodor is, and we do. By the time he's realized what's happened we'll be long gone." He paused as another thought occurred to him; he hadn't thought twice before deciding to lead the venture personally. But then, _he_ hadn't just gotten home from a month's absence… "Merlin, I'm more than happy for Bodiver to accompany us."

A sideways glance showed him that Guinevere had set her jaw in that peculiar way she had, telling him she had words to be spoken when they were alone again.

"No," Merlin said. Slow and quiet and thoughtful. "What if – I go alone?"

Arthur understood what he hadn't said – _using magic_ – and answered immediately, "No."

"I could take the location from Mark's memory, and transport myself right to the tomb, and return with Rodor in minutes –"

"It's too dangerous," Arthur said. Ignoring the irony of _him_ saying so, now. "Too many unknowns. Perhaps Rodor will have left the tomb, perhaps Odin's men will be too close. And _no_, you're not taking someone with you."

"Gwaine would –"

"It's dangerous magic, you've said it before yourself. Two people there, and at least three people back, with who-knows-what required of you magically while you're there – _no_, Merlin." Arthur speared his sorcerer with his best forbidding glare.

"Then… leave Bodiver here with Gwen. That way she'll be the first to know, if anything happens. If I'm with you, I can act immediately, there won't be the delay of Bodiver calling for me, the minute it takes me to arrive and figure out what's going on and what I should do… but… Arthur." Merlin's brows drew down in an almost-puzzled frown. "I think… we should take Caerleon, too."

Into the lengthening moment of shocked silence, Arthur said, "Care to explain why?"

"No. I mean…" Merlin dropped his head and rubbed his eye with the heel of one hand. "I can't. It _sounds_… wrong. But… it feels right."

"Ah." Arthur met Guinevere's worried glance, and rolled his eyes to diffuse a little of the tension. "Your funny feeling again, is it?"

"Something like that." Merlin rubbed his face more vigorously, then lifted it to meet Arthur's eyes unwaveringly. "Trust me?"

"You know I do." Arthur sighed. "All right. We'll camp as close to the border as we can, in the Forests of Gedref, and strike over the border as early as we can. Which means, we leave with the rising sun."

Merlin nodded, bracing his hands on his thighs to push himself to standing. "Get some sleep?" he said, with humor – both as a suggestion to Arthur, and as an anticipation of what Arthur was about to say to him.

"Yes." Arthur held his gaze a moment longer, telling him without words, _Thank_ _you, old friend_. Merlin understood, and ducked his head in a nod that was also a slight bow.

"Good night, Merlin," Guinevere added, as their friend let himself out of the room.

She stood as Arthur stepped around the corner of the table, and draped her arms around his neck as his encircled her waist.

"Arthur," she said, and by the inflection in her voice, he knew he was going to hear whatever concern she hadn't voiced in front of Merlin. "Why have you agreed to help Mark and Mithian?" She knew why. And she approved, but this was her way of questioning his motives gently.

"Because Nemeth is our ally," he said.

She tucked her chin slightly. "One small slip, and Camelot could find itself without a king."

"Merlin won't let that happen." He grinned at her and leaned his forehead down to hers. "Besides, love, our prophesied destiny –" spoken with the right amount of sarcastic arrogance to make it a joke – "establishing Camelot, balancing magic, building alliances toward a golden age of peace… Kilgarrah said, destiny won't be thwarted by death – so until we accomplish all that, I'm safe."

"It could be argued," she said slowly, "that you've done a great deal of that already. Even if it's true that your life is protected until your destiny is complete, it doesn't mean you won't be hurt – perhaps badly. And that may affect your ability to fight the Saxons."

"That's a risk," he said gently, but seriously, "I'm prepared to take."

She drew back to study him, her fingertips sneaking down the back of his shirt-collar. "For Nemeth or for yourself?"

"What do you mean, _for yourself_?"

She cocked her head just a bit, like she sometimes did when lecturing his sons. "I know you, Arthur. I know you prefer the accomplishment of action. Two nights ago it was you arriving at midnight, exhausted and injured. And even though we're preparing to march the army north, you're going to ride out again – wouldn't it be wiser to send your knights?"

He heard her worry for him, and loved her for it. "Guinevere," he said, and bent to scoop her up, carry her back to bed.

She chuckled – not the girlish giggle it had been on their wedding night, but a sound warmer and more confident for all their years with each other, good and bad, up and down.

"Even with prophecy, none of us knows what tomorrow may bring, you're right. I cannot promise that I will be safe – even if I stayed in the citadel the rest of my life, which you know I cannot, and you would not have me do anyway – but I will promise to be careful. I have no intention of leaving you, or the children, but I will do what I must, as a king and as a man." He toed off his boots behind him, letting them fall to the floor with a slap of leather, and they snuggled into a mutually comfortable position. He pressed his grin to her lips. "It feels right. Trust me?"

"And I will do what I must," she sighed. "As a queen and as a woman. Only -" she accepted his kiss – "I think you have it easier, to go and _do_, rather than sit and wait."

He laughed, and kissed her again.

**A/N: Some dialogue from ep.4.5 "Another's Sorrow" and 5.12 "The Diamond of the Day."**


	6. Lother's Legacy

**Chapter 6: Lother's Legacy**

"I'm sorry," Merlin whispered into the warm fragrance of her hair just behind her ear. Again.

With his hands on her ribs, he could feel every breath she took – deep and fast; she'd been hurrying, then, from their quarters in the physician's tower, to the courtyard. For a second, even public, farewell.

"No – don't be," she said, her arms around his neck as he stood a step lower than her, reins trailing over his elbow. She had one hand in his hair on the back of his neck, one splayed over his backbone between his shoulder-blades to press him as close to her as possible. "We've talked about this – Arthur comes first, and I understand that, and – honestly. I don't mind." Her breath was warm on his collarbone through his shirt where neither jacket nor scarf covered him.

"I think Marya –" Their daughter's deep blue eyes had welled with tears as she silently accepted his goodbye, less than an hour ago.

"Marya minds as a child mind," Freya interrupted swiftly. "Because she doesn't understand – but she will. Merlin, don't be sorry." She leaned back to look him in the eye, her own like dark pools he loved to lose himself in. "Be _safe_."

"I will. Three days, is all it should be." He knew better than to make promises he couldn't keep, like, _I'll be fine_. "But you. If anything happens, please use that ware-stone." He gave her a gentle shake for emphasis; she knew what he was talking about, and she nodded. "I know there's – nothing I can do. But I want to… be with you. At least."

"I love you," she whispered.

Freya took his face in her hands to kiss him again before she stepped backward up the stair to see them off as a group. As he turned to the queen, he saw her give a little wave over his shoulder – to her brother, he assumed.

"Take care of him, Merlin," Gwen said, as she always did. A bit of worry in her eyes behind the cheerful smile. As always. She drew her hand lightly down his sleeve.

"I will." His standard response, with an equally cheerful smile, as Arthur swung up into his saddle three yards from them. They didn't have to say the words anymore, but it had become something of a tradition between the two of them. "Gwen," he added in a low voice. "Could you – keep an eye on Freya, while we're gone?" She gave him a fuller attention and a questioning look. "I know you've got Morgana here – and Mithian now to worry about, but – last month. And the war. And now this."

"She has your mother, and Enid," Gwen reminded him. "But yes. We women will all look after each other. She won't be alone."

"Thank you," he said, his words almost lost in Arthur's call, a drawl of sarcastic impatience that didn't fool any of them, anymore.

"Coming, _Mer_lin?

He turned to mount his mare, the last one in the saddle. Gwaine was pointing out for Mark, which window was the guest-room where Mithian might be watching from; Caerleon was in a slump-shouldered sulk between Percival and Kay. Arthur swept an alert gaze over his men, gathering his reins and giving his gelding the heel-nudge to start out.

Merlin twisted in his saddle. Freya stood near Gwen, serious and serene, her hands clasped together and hanging in front of her abdomen.

He threw her a kiss. And faced forward.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Twenty-four hours out from Camelot.

Arthur stood at the edge of the ruins of the watchtower looking out toward the valley as the air lightened toward dawn, the spring-morning mist sinking down toward the tree-tops. Behind him he heard the men's voices, breaking their night's fast and the camp, at once.

A hard ride, yesterday, but not unpleasant. Caerleon was inclined to surliness – though whether that was due to any actual disinclination for the trip, or just overall resentment that he had no choice in the matter, Arthur couldn't tell. Though, after Gwaine wondered aloud to Kay, whether Merlin's magic could form an invisible gag without hindering breathing – and Kay had responded in all serious thoughtfulness, resulting in a surprisingly intellectual debate that had put a youthful grin on Merlin's face for the better part of an hour – Caerleon had kept his grumbling to himself.

Arthur couldn't tell that Merlin's plan of persuading the man to peace was working, either. He just hoped this mission wasn't a disaster.

Lother's tomb. Their destination, today, although it wasn't in sight, yet. Lother was – he understood from his history lessons with Geoffrey – the reason this watchtower was in ruins. The originator of the treaty with Constennin that lasted between Rodor and Uther, and now between Arthur and Rodor. He wondered if he would have such a tomb, and be remembered, so.

"Sire," Percival said behind him, and he turned.

Gwaine was kicking the last embers of the fire out, Merlin fitting on his gloves as his mare nibbled the ends of his hair; Caerleon was already mounted, leaning over his reins with an expression of disdainful boredom.

"Have the outriders returned?" Arthur said, moving back to join the group.

Sir Kay and Sir Bors - one of Leon's scout-protégées, a stocky young man with a hoarse voice and an abrupt demeanor - had been sent the night before to determine what they were advancing into. Arthur planned to leave the two guarding the horses and supplies, this side of the river – they could take it in turns to catch up on their sleep.

"Yes, sire," Percival responded. "They report large numbers of Odin's men patrolling just beyond the border."

"Attention inward, or outward?" Arthur said.

"Inward."

"They're looking for Rodor," Arthur concluded. "They don't know Mark and Mithian crossed the border; they're not expecting us."

"Sire, we have but a few, and good cover here," Percival reminded him. "If we're seen, there'll be no escape without a fight. Would it not be wise to remain until the patrols have passed?"

"Out of the question – time is a luxury we don't have," Arthur said. Feeling the eyes of the others on him and knowing that he spoke to them all at once.

Mark, at least, looked eager and relieved; Arthur wanted to order him to stay with Kay and Bors but knew he wouldn't. Couldn't. It wouldn't be more than a suggestion, in any case, Prince Mark of Nemeth was not exactly one of his men. And it was his king and father they were trying to rescue.

"If they haven't found him, and don't find him, it will occur to them that their quarry has slipped the net. Maybe some will draw back to the palace, but this stretch of the border will become very interesting to them very quickly, as the likeliest point of escape, or counterattack. We have nothing to gain by waiting."

"Speed and stealth," Gwaine said with a grin.

"Do you know what stealth is?" Merlin murmured, and Gwaine responded by kicking ash at him.

"We press on for Nemeth," Arthur said, as Bors led Arthur's horse, saddled and packed, toward him. "Make ready to depart."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

They'd seen the tomb before, on a high embankment overlooking the deep and narrow river cutting its swift path between the cliffs.

A happier trip, traveling to Nemeth for Mark and Mithian's wedding ceremony and celebration. Freya had come, and Gwen, that trip, even Elyan had accompanied them. Enid, Tristan and Isolde – Leon and Elena had met them there, twin seven-year-old boys the cause of her rather frazzled-looking hair and beaming smile, both. Leon serene as always.

The last time they had all been together. Happier times.

Six of them crossed the river a league upstream, and just as far from the road and bridge. One at a time, and fast, in case it was being watched for just such a crossing. Moving silently just behind Arthur and pausing often so Merlin could _look_ for Odin's soldiers.

They'd reached the tomb without altercation, and now lay on their sides, facing each other, to peer over the edge of the last ridge toward the structure.

Almost half a league distant from the road, they hadn't stopped to see it, two years ago. It was impressive. Three stories high, the entrance was little more than a cave mouth, dug into the hillside. The second level looked to be hewn from the rock, sides smoothed in a wide cylindrical shape, maybe thirty yards in diameter. The third and highest was an open-walled space; the roof was a dome of the same stone, supported by thick and many pillars. Truly, the tomb of a king.

"Merlin?" Arthur said again.

He _looked_. Almost a hundred yards in a slow circle, and his head was throbbing when he finished.

"There's no one," he said. But that didn't make him feel any better. Was it just their luck, that the patrols had indeed passed before their arrival?

"We should find my father-in-law just inside," Mark said in a low, eager voice. Merlin looked over his shoulder at the prince – who was looking at the tomb; all Merlin could see was his curly club of a braid down his neck.

"Percival, you're with me," Arthur decided in a low voice. "And Mark."

Beyond Arthur, there was a bit of a scuffle as Gwaine kicked Percival's ankle, probably to express his annoyance at being left with Caerleon.

Arthur twisted to look at Merlin, sky-blue eyes serious in spite of his twisted grin. Merlin met the grin with a raised eyebrow.

_Be careful. _

_And you_.

Merlin watched his king gather himself, heard the familiar clink of chainmail as Arthur lifted off the ground to prowl forward – sword sheathed, but hand on the hilt. Percival on his right, Mark on his left.

It reminded him rather uncomfortably of sending the knights into Camelot to find and lure the Knights of Medhir. Only this time, he was watching Arthur go instead of waiting with him…

Gwaine slithered closer to him on the ridge, but facing Caerleon who crouched behind them. Merlin wasn't seriously concerned about the other king. At the moment, anyway. Caerleon gained nothing by alerting Odin to their position, but he risked one of them striking a blow in immediate retaliation, and the likelihood that he'd fall into Odin's hands instead. Who might ransom him, but Caerleon's lands and Odin's were separated by the width of Camelot. Not the most strategic position, and Caerleon wasn't stupid.

Arthur disappeared into the open doorway of the tomb, closely followed by Percival and Mark. Merlin kept his eyes on the dark hollow, letting Gwaine worry about their captive.

Which, of course, he couldn't do silently.

"You have a queen, don't you," Gwaine said, as if the idea was occurring to him for the first time. "What's she like, then, your wife?"

"Tough as nails," Caerleon growled back. "What's yours like?"

Merlin could hear the grin in his brother's response. "Sweet as honey. She's expecting our second, in a little over a month."

Merlin hoped – _hoped_ – they'd be victorious and back in Camelot, in a month. Gwaine didn't let on that he'd thought that far ahead, but the roguish demeanor hid surprising thoughtfulness, sometimes.

"What about _his_ wife?" Caerleon said.

Merlin didn't turn from the watch he kept over the tomb's entrance. When Gwaine spoke – he never had any trouble talking about Merlin, or anyone, as if he wasn't there – the audible smile was gone.

"His wife," the knight said, deliberate and even, "is my sister."

"Really?" Caerleon drawled disparagement. "You let your sister marry a –"

Merlin turned his head and met the king's eyes. Caerleon didn't finish his sentence.

Lying on the tilted side of the ridge beside Merlin, Gwaine said, "I was proud to give her to him."

Merlin faced the mouth of the tomb again. He remembered that day clearly, and it always made him want to smile. Though today, the smile felt more than a little melancholy. It felt like he had gained the world, that day, but sometimes he wondered if it hadn't been exactly fair to _her_.

It had been different from Arthur and Gwen's wedding. Held in a wooded clearing according to the druid's customs, Iseldir had performed most of the ceremony. Except their vows and the pronunciation of their confirmed union. Which Arthur had done. It had seemed important to Merlin, that the king, the friend, he'd vowed his life in service to, had been the one to bless the vow he'd made to his wife.

There had been dancing. Great circles of friends joining hands – which he'd done his best to stay out of, respecting the feet of his neighbors. Gaius had laughed. Merlin had laughed at Arthur dancing.

There had been drinking, of the uproariously convivial kind. Gwaine had turned from some embarrassingly loud innuendo concerning the newlyweds, to come face to face with Hunith. She'd given him a stern look – he'd blushed, maybe a one-time occurrence for the brash knight. Then Hunith had put her arms around Gwaine's broad shoulders. _My son's brother,_ she'd said.

Gwaine gave a low hiss, punching Merlin's shin lightly. "Odin's men."

He spun to see a contingent of half-a-dozen soldiers, tramping through the trees. They didn't seem especially alert to catching anyone moving at the far reaches of their vision, or to moving stealthily at all, but in a moment could not fail to notice Gwaine and Merlin, at least.

Gwaine motioned, and Merlin nodded, and they slid down from the ridge, moving parallel to the soldiers for five paces or so to reach better cover. The jutting snarled roots of a large fallen oak fanned upward higher than their heads; the dark earth still trapped between screened them from view. The three of them huddled close, listened to the jingle and tramp of the enemy, the low murmur of careless voices. Merlin hardly dared breathe.

_Gag him_, Gwaine mouthed to Merlin, jabbing his forefinger at Caerleon between them before twisting back around to keep an eye on the enemy.

Merlin was face to face with the king. And both of them knew he wasn't using magic to keep Caerleon silent. He wondered if the man was rethinking his options, considering using Odin's men to rid himself of the knights of Camelot who held him captive, weighing his chances of escape –

But Caerleon was studying _him_, Merlin saw. With a grim sort of expectation that confused him – what did the king think he would do? Moments passed, and Merlin broke the contact of the king's gaze to dare to lean out and watch the six men march away – not toward the tomb either, toward the road. Gwaine twisted in his crouch – having watched the soldiers past the point of risked discovery – to give Merlin a worried grimace.

He interpreted it. Why weren't there more? _Large numbers_, Kay and Bors had said.

Merlin flung himself to the ridge and looked over, closely followed by Gwaine.

Three men emerged from the tomb. Dressed in chainmail – covered with maroon tunics embroidered with Odin's gray wolfs-head.

That's why the woods were clear of men. They were inside the tomb.

Waiting in ambush. Which had been sprung. These three, to keep watch for any of Arthur's reinforcements.

"I'm going in," he informed Gwaine in a hard whisper. "I'll take one, and try to send the other two your way."

Gwaine nodded, and Merlin glanced at Caerleon. Whose expression held only an intense sort of eagerness. Perhaps it would be, two of Odin's men facing Gwaine, and Caerleon betraying him from behind. But Gwaine was cunning, too – he wouldn't turn his back on the king if he mistrusted him in that moment. Though he wouldn't make Arthur a liar by killing Caerleon out of hand, either.

Merlin moved, fast and silent. Circling around to the east of the tomb so it would provide him cover to approach the trio of guards from their rear. Speed was more important than stealth, now.

He directed a wordless spell to the forest floor, a variation on the foliage-rustling he'd used to distract men before. Last fall's dead leaves fluttered in a quick, unnatural path – almost from the guards' very feet, away to Gwaine's position, as if a hidden rug had been yanked and shaken.

Two of the men followed immediately, their bearing stiff with suspicion, hands on their swords. The remaining guard drew his – scanned the clearing before the tomb – then turned as Merlin stepped out. He snatched the weapon from the man's hand and smashed the hilt into his head. The soldier's eyes rolled shut and he dropped without a sound.

Merlin didn't wait to see how Gwaine handled the other two. Readjusting his grip on his borrowed sword, he slipped into the entrance passage of the tomb.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

_Why is it_, Arthur groused to himself as his eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light, his skin to the cool damp, _always a cave_?

The passage was uneven, though the floor was level and the walls sufficiently separated, the roof several feet higher than their heads. All of earth, though; roots dangled dry and gnarled. More like the Forest of Balor than Dinas Emrys. He heard Merlin's voice in memory – _it's a trap_ – and wished for that blue mage-light to illumine the way. His ears strained to give him warning of what to expect, but he could hear nothing.

The cool blue of indirect daylight was shifting to a dirtier pale yellow, ahead – torchlight, unless he was mistaken. He glanced over his shoulder, his steps slowing – Mark, then Percival, watching to the rear.

"The burial chamber lies just ahead," Mark whispered, not looking at him, but focused on whatever doorway lay beyond them. "The end of that tunnel."

Arthur didn't hurry, even as the open doorway and the small chamber came into view. About the size of the storeroom off the back of the physician's chamber, his mind still sometimes called _Merlin's room_, if Merlin's room ever had a great stone sarcophagus in the center of it. He moved past the doorway to scan the chamber before exposing himself in the doorway.

It appeared deserted, but that was to be expected – Rodor's three knights surely wouldn't be careless, with Odin's men patrolling. Even if the patrols seemed to have passed.

But then, he might have expected one of them, at least, to be watching for Mark's return with aid…

Mark entered the chamber eagerly, giving Arthur's shoulder an unintentional push. He allowed the gesture to propel him inside the chamber, though he kept to the wall, noticing inset doorways at the far corners of the room. Mark ducked to see behind the stone tomb, then glanced down either of the doorways, confused. "I don't understand."

"Where's your father?" Arthur said.

Mark turned to him, clearly at a loss. "He's not here."

Arthur glanced at Percival, keeping watch into the passage from the doorway. "Then where is he?"

For answer, an echo of metal. The rasp of weaponry, the chink of armor joints. For one brief moment, he thought, _Rodor's three guards_.

But the sound magnified, and _fast_.

Percival backed into the room, freeing his weapon; Mark jumped and reached for his own. Arthur's dragonsword was in his hand before he consciously considered drawing it, the stone box in the center of the room at his back as a wave of maroon-clad fighters spilled into the room from all three entrances at once.

_Ambush_. He cursed himself for not considering this possibility… Caerleon would laugh.

He decided – lunging to stab the first enemy who struck at him, punching the second unhesitatingly with his left fist – he wouldn't begrudge Caerleon's derision. If he was still alive to hear it, after this.

The third had a spear. Arthur blocked the sharp steel tip, but the soldier reacted immediately, spinning the shaft to slam the butt end into Arthur's ribs. He stumbled a step, then twisted to slash at the man's back.

Parry – and again – there were too many – he kicked an opponent down, aware that Mark had reeled and fallen from a blow to the head, faintly hearing Percival's roar from the opposite side of the tomb.

Hands clutched him. Fistfuls of his mail and tunic at his back, his left arm – he struck with his sword and the blow never landed; more hands latched tightly on his right arm. He growled and tried to shake them off; someone kicked the back of his knee and his leg folded – their combined weight drove him down. He jerked and saw Percival, disarmed and bent forward over the stone tomb by three enemy soldiers – struggling to raise his head to see Arthur –

And Odin himself stalked into the room. Narrow-faced, his gray hair combed straight back, face expressionless.

Arthur brought one knee up, the sole of one foot flat on the ground – and an edge of steel kissed the side of his neck.

Behind Odin, Rodor. White hair disheveled, blood on a face pale with shock and heavily lined with exhaustion, blood on the gray fur trim of his muddied black coat. His eyes were down, but found the person of his son-in-law immediately. Arthur guessed his three knights were no longer among the living.

Odin strode around the tomb to loom over Arthur, drawing his sword in a slow, ceremonial way. Emotionless. "Arthur Pendragon," he said. "At last."

His men pressed heavily on Arthur, holding arms and shoulders. And why did he suddenly think of a day long ago, on a sunny hilltop when he was held thus, no fear for his own life, not like now. Held back from a sacrifice, a death he was trying to prevent.

Merlin. Arthur cursed his own arrogance – death will not prevent the fulfillment of prophecy. _Merlin_!

"I've waited many years for this moment," Odin said, leveling his sword at Arthur's throat. "You killed my son."

Was his whole life defined by that one moment, so long ago, to this man? Were not men permitted mistakes in their youth?

Rodor disappeared from sight as he knelt beside Prince Mark.

"You took what was most precious from me." Odin's voice trembled. He leaned forward, though the blade did not advance an inch.

Arthur thought of his children's faces, and his heart ached. He would find their loss hard to forgive.

"And now you will pay the forfeit."

"Understand this, Odin," Arthur said. His voice sounded quite calm; he could hear Percival struggling and swearing. "You kill me, and you'll have all of Camelot to answer to."

Odin met his eyes, then. Surprise - then remembrance of what _war with Camelot_ had meant for a dozen years now, since a young peasant had arrived to grin into the sun and say, _my lord_. A moment of re-consideration. In which Arthur himself wondered how Merlin would react to his death.

But the chance for personal revenge was too close, too immediately tempting – Odin would take whatever retribution the sorcerer and the knights could wreak, for the satisfaction of Arthur's blood on his blade, the last few seconds of Arthur choking on his own blood – stilling, stiffening.

Not so different from Caerleon. Damn their self-destructive pride.

"I will deal with your men soon enough," Odin said. Not a threat, but a full acceptance of unavoidable consequences. "But now, your time has come."

Arthur felt only a slight sting as the point entered his skin at the base of his neck.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin dashed down the dark tunnel, stolen sword in hand, and slid to a stop at the doorway. Seeing maroon-covered backs – and no one fighting – hearing a voice full of commanding authority – _I will deal with your men soon enough_…

He knelt, strategically removing himself from eye-height, and snatched a glimpse of the rest of the chamber. Prince Mark was on his back at the far end, beginning to stir under Rodor's hands as the old man knelt over him. Percival stretched over the stone block of the tomb, red-faced and sweating and desperate, eyes locked on – Arthur, probably, Merlin couldn't see clearly.

Four men he'd wish to protect, all separated, all in more or less immediate peril, surrounded by bared blades.

A distraction, then.

Merlin spoke, quickly and low, "_Ic the bebiede thaet thu abifiast nu_!" slamming his palm on the earth floor to punctuate the magic, and bruised his shoulder on the corner of the doorway as the tomb shuddered.

Men tipped off their feet, crashed into each other, worried for the sharp edges of their weaponry. Percival, anchored to the tomb, and the other three in crouching or kneeling positions, retained their balance.

And recovered faster, for it.

Percival shrugged off two holding him down, turned to slug a third with his big fist. Mark pulled Rodor to his feet, spinning him aside from a soldier's lunge – pushing that attacker off-balance. Arthur gave a wordless shout of alert and a sword floated gracefully over the stone tomb; Percival turned to catch it in response.

One more, at Arthur's back, with ax raised to cleave the king in half. Years it had been, since Merlin had – driven the sword unhesitatingly through another human being's body. He let the corpse's lifeless tumble take the hilt from his hand and met Arthur's glad, surprised glance.

"Merlin!"

"Hurry, this way!" he said, beckoning. The earth-tremble he'd caused would not last much longer.

Arthur was through the doorway first, Percival turning to help Rodor – already wounded – and Mark, his face and chestnut hair smeared with blood. Merlin shoved them through the doorway, covering their retreat with a simultaneous shove of magic blasting all of Odin's men to the back wall of the tomb.

Then spun to sprint after his friends. A root caught him across the face – sudden sharp sting and one eye blurred with reactive tears – he heard Arthur bellowing, "_This way_!"

Merlin was faster than Percival, anyway. Mark was stumbling, Rodor aged and weak. At this pace, they weren't going to outrun anybody to the river – across it – and the border had never stopped Odin before. They crashed through the underbrush and found themselves on the road, Gwaine and Caerleon – both armed – a stone's easy toss ahead of them, waiting and ready to run.

Arthur glanced at Merlin, and he again took up the rear – half-a-dozen more maroon-clad fighters gained the road thirty paces behind them.

And others on their flanks as they ran.

Merlin heard the clear ring of slide and strike – blew their pursuers off their feet with another single gust of raw magic – and turned to see Rodor pushing down the last of the flankers.

"Don't look so surprised," the oldest king gasped, even as he grasped his upper right arm near the elbow with his left hand. "I commanded an army in my time."

"And you will do so again," Arthur promised him. Gathered their attention with a swift look round, gave his command with a jerk of his head.

They ran.

They tried to run.

"Leave me," Rodor gasped, stumbling from a slow-jog to a limping walk.

"That won't happen." Arthur slowed, out of breath but – as Merlin scrutinized him between the bodies of their comrades that separated him from his king – fine to run another league, if he had to. "You're why we're here."

"Can't you just kill them all from here?" Caerleon sneered at Merlin.

Merlin tried to pretend he hadn't heard – that they all hadn't heard – but couldn't repress the shudder. He could. And hated the fact, the uncertainty of who else might be thinking he _should_ use his magic so.

Arthur gave Caerleon a filthy glare.

"Leave me," Rodor repeated, as Percival slung the old king's uninjured arm over his own broad shoulders. "Take Mark. They can have my life, if he lives to someday reclaim the throne for my grandsons." Prince Mark, bent over to catch his breath, hands on his knees, looked up in shocked protest.

"Arthur," Merlin said warningly, as a larger group of their pursuers emerged in a staggered line on the road. And one appeared to be in clear command. Merlin wondered –

"Odin," Arthur said. Confirming Merlin's fear. "The rest of you, follow the ridgeline to the river. Meet Bors and Kay and fall back to the watchtower."

"What about you?" Rodor said. "He wants you dead, Arthur."

Arthur's eyes found Merlin's again, and he nodded in response. "We'll lead them this way," Arthur said. "This is between me and Odin. You need no further part."

Arthur looked, Merlin thought, quite deliberately at Caerleon. Tacitly allowing him freedom, if the older warrior-king could win it. Arthur nodded once, then jogged past them, past Merlin.

Odin and his men alerted; yells raised and weapons, also.

Arthur plunged off the road, headed into a fold in the land that provided small cover and angled toward the river but away from the road.

And Merlin followed.

Eight or ten men behind Odin in the road, though he didn't pause to check his count. Over his shoulder, while they were running down this ditch, roots and rocks, he'd be lucky if he didn't trip and take Arthur down with him. Merlin guessed Arthur thought he was a bigger prize to Odin than either Rodor or Mark for more than one reason – even if his men split evenly, Percival and Gwaine could take four or five men, together. To say nothing of the other three, who could at least defend themselves.

If necessary, Merlin could transport himself and his king to the watchtower in the space of a breath. They'd be there before the others, even. Just… not before the others were safe from pursuit.

Arthur leaped down the deepening gulley, sword in hand as there hadn't exactly been time for him to sheath it; he probably assumed the ditch would empty into the river. Merlin stayed close behind him – time pounded past in heartbeats and footfalls. The gulley walls rose above their heads; Arthur's boots slipped on loose stones. He rounded a corner; Merlin wheeled to a halt at his side.

The narrow valley dead-ended into a steep wall of earth, not the river-border, as Merlin – and probably Arthur – had expected.

"_Damn_ it you've got to be _kid_ding me!" Arthur exclaimed.

Behind them, a shout of discovery and triumph.

Merlin turned his head, saw Arthur turning back to their pursuers also, without looking to Merlin for a quick escape with magic. So he waited. Always the hardest when facing conflict with his king. Waiting for the command to act, holding back to let Arthur be Arthur.

The gray-haired man with the commanding air led two men at the bottom of the gully behind them; three more were up on the heights with crossbows. Merlin made a quick sweep – visual and magical – none of them posed a threat he couldn't halt in midair.

"No," the gray-haired man said, gesturing for the two others to remain, and drawing his sword. "I want to do this myself."

Arthur left Merlin's side, lifting his sword in a duel-ready position, as the other did the same.

Merlin leaned forward on his toes; he'd never met Odin, never seen the man fight, but it was rare that Arthur was bested, even in a training match when it was not life or death on the line.

The Knights' Code. Most of which Merlin understood, and respected that Arthur adhered to it. Odin still blamed Arthur for his son, a decades-old tournament misfortune. So the two kings would meet in single combat, here in this dirty ditch.

Movement caught his attention – at the corner of his eye, on the steep bank above him. He looked up, instinctively lifting a hand to neutralize the threat that was too far to Arthur's periphery to be seen.

Gwaine, on his haunches as if ready to jump down to join them, or give them a hand pulling them up. And Caerleon.

In that moment, Odin struck, and Merlin didn't think of the two spectators again.

Odin chopped at Arthur, who caught the descending blow and slung the other king's sword to the side with a deadly _shing_! then slashed in retaliation. Odin jumped back, but recovered swiftly, and went on the offensive, Arthur giving ground a little at a time, content to defend for a time.

Conserving strength and energy, Merlin knew. And because Arthur hadn't that spark of temper engaged, yet.

The fourth blow Arthur caught and held, the two blades crossed near the hilt, between their faces – the golden-haired king pushed as if he were testing his opponent's strength. Over Arthur's shoulder Merlin saw Odin glare – before Arthur shoved suddenly, sending the older man down on one bank.

And stepped back. Clearly, not exploiting his advantage.

Odin hesitated a fraction of a second before leaping back up in a flurry of strikes. Arthur again merely parried, defending himself in a series of minimal-effort movements. Finally Odin slung a wild horizontal blow at Arthur's neck, and Merlin's king acted to finish the duel.

Arthur ducked the strike, and Odin's unchecked momentum carried him to the right – Arthur kicked at the back of Odin's knee. Odin swung again, a back-handed blow as he went down. Arthur blocked, flipped his blade – and the hilt flew from Odin's hand.

The edge of the dragonsword lifted Odin's chin. Merlin's attention was on the crossbows – but he guessed that the soldiers would wait for a clear command from their king, at least.

"Finish it," Odin said, daring Arthur.

Arthur twitched. Only slightly, but Merlin knew his friend.

A fair fight, clear victory. And if their places had been reversed, Odin would not hesitate. Without Odin to lead them, his soldiers would retreat and Rodor and Mark could easily reclaim their kingdom. All very _right_. But not _Arthur_.

Merlin said his king's name, in a low voice. "Arthur, stop."

They'd done this so many times before, with the council of Camelot, they didn't even have to plan or discuss. Merlin would voice Arthur's thought, allowing the other members to argue with clarity and without inhibition – argue with _Merlin_, where they might not have dared openly disagree with their king. And Arthur could close the discussion with the wisest choice after considering all options.

Here and now, it made the choice of him killing Odin an even reality. If Arthur appeared to change his mind.

"Think about what you're doing," Merlin went on, though he had no doubt Arthur had already done so.

It wasn't a terrible thing for Arthur to seem as though he could be brutal and capricious, to someone like Odin. It was a bit like introducing Merlin to Caerleon fresh from the wilds of the druid camp. But Arthur didn't pull his sword back, and it was easier for Merlin to read his king's face, than the set of his body from behind.

He spoke to Arthur, knowing Odin was listening too. "What good will this achieve? How many times have you talked about uniting this land?" Their destiny, and _so_ important now that they were sure to face the invaders in the north, and _soon_. "Will killing this man make that dream any closer?"

"He's right," Arthur said to Odin. "This is no answer."

"Finish it, and be done," Odin said, enunciating scornfully.

He sounded very like Caerleon. Merlin risked a glance up – to find the captive king's eyes on _him_. And in place of his habitual sardonic scowl, an unusually inscrutable expression. Caerleon turned his head, leaning forward off the bank to watch Arthur.

"And then what?" Arthur retreated slightly from his fighting-crouch over his adversary's body on the bank, and gestured to the five soldiers behind Odin – above and below. "Your people will seek their revenge. A war without an end."

"There is no other way," Odin stated.

"There is another way," Arthur insisted. "In return for your life, you must restore Rodor to the throne of Nemeth."

Merlin very deliberately did not look at Caerleon again. Wondering if the similarities of situation had struck Arthur also – he didn't think his king was aware of Caerleon's presence. He would never sign a treaty under this duress – but Odin? Less volatile than Caerleon, Merlin thought. More inclined to consider the state of the kingdom he left behind.

"Even if I agreed, it solves nothing," Odin said sourly. "What about _us_, Pendragon?"

"I am not asking you to like me, or trust me, or even quit hating me," Arthur said. "A truce. Binding our kingdoms to peace." Merlin heard what he hadn't said aloud – _give up this quest for revenge, once and for all._

"Never!" Odin spat.

"Is this what you want?" Arthur raised his voice and shoved the edge of his blade forward, causing Odin to flinch back slightly. "To die here, now, knowing that you condemned this land to war? Odin, you cannot let it end like this. The blood will never wash off."

"You killed my son," Odin said stonily.

"And I am sorry for it," Arthur said. "But sorry will not bring him back, any more than my death can do. Let us lose no more. I am offering you the chance to end this – take it." Arthur straightened, backing a step to throw his sword into the earth-bank, burying it to half its length. He held out his empty hand to the fallen king before him. "_Take it_," he urged again.

A feeling swelled in Merlin's chest, making it hard to breathe properly and stinging moisture into his eyes – a feeling he called _pride_, though that word seemed inadequate.

Odin said, "So be it." He took Arthur's hand and allowed the golden-haired king to pull him to his feet. "A truce it is."

**A/N: Kind of back and forth in this chapter – but that's what happens when it's action, and then Merlin&amp;Arthur split up!**

**A bit about Merlin&amp;Freya's wedding, as prompted by Insanityisgood25 (way back in a review on **_**Towers of Lionys**_**)… I didn't do Hunith and Freya meeting, but how about Hunith and Gwaine?!**

**And, some dialogue from ep. 4.5 "Another's Sorrow".**

**Okay, fyi. Next week I'm leaving home due to another military training month, so I'll be separated from my computer/internet. I'm going to try to get at least one more chapter out before then, if not two… and hopefully I'll return with a good bit of the rest of this in rough draft form (regular every-other-day updates, anyone?), if not all of it… **


	7. Right Behind You

**Chapter 7: Right Behind You**

"Your wounds are superficial, sire," Merlin said, tying the ends of the white bandage around the old king's bare arm. "They will heal in time."

Arthur had one foot up on the corner of one of the fallen watchtower stones, leaning on his forearms on his knee. Less than half his attention on his knights readying the campsite for a second night; they didn't need his supervision, after all. With Rodor in company, the conflict with Odin resolved – temporarily, at least, he was inclined to leave Bors to observe the withdrawal of Odin's troops from Nemeth – their ride back to Camelot leisurely on the morrow, they didn't need any encouragement to give more attention to their comfort, this night.

Mark knelt beside his king opposite Merlin, watching the process as closely as he was able. As Arthur – and probably Merlin, though he hadn't made a fuss about treating the old king first, and in the conventional way, as was Rodor's preference – was watching Mark. Pale under the smears of blood, unsteady on his feet, and he'd vomited more than once before they'd reached the tower.

And Caerleon. Pretending to ignore them all in a dark cloud of sullenness – but his dark eyes keen as he watched them all. Mostly Merlin.

"The bone is sound, the joint and tendon untouched," Merlin continued. He bent to replace his supplies in his physician's case – round and stiffened to hold its shape, a near-exact duplicate of the one Gaius had carried most of Arthur's life – then straightened to help Rodor ease the injured arm back into its jacket sleeve. "I've treated it for infection, and can give you something once we're back in Camelot to reduce the chance of scarring."

"Thank you, Merlin," Rodor sighed.

Percival was beside them, bending to aid the old king in rising from his own stone block. "Come, Your Highness," he said. "We've a comfortable seat by the fire for you, and as the cooking duty fell to Kay rather than Gwaine, we can look forward to treating our bellies tonight, instead of punishing –"

"Hey!" Gwaine protested from behind Caerleon, organizing the bedding for everyone minus two watchmen.

"Thank you, Sir Percival," Rodor murmured. Arthur hoped that with a few days rest in Camelot, the old king would be himself again.

"It's why you married Enid, isn't it?" Percival said to Gwaine. "Her cooking?"

"No, not entirely."

Arthur couldn't quite stop the smile at the tone of his roguish knight's voice, and shook his head; very soon, he guessed, the conversation would border on inappropriate.

"She's the only one who'd put up with him," Merlin suggested, with the gleam of a grin over his shoulder to Arthur, as he beckoned for Mark to take the stone-block patient's seat. There was a line of blood across the sorcerer's face that had smeared, giving him a rougher and more dangerous look than Arthur was used to seeing.

Gwaine pretended to consider. "Yes, you're probably right about that," he conceded, before his voice became suggestive again. "I'm just too much for any other lady to handle." At the fire, Kay snickered.

"Gwaine," Arthur said, "we have unmarried knights here, and I'll thank you to remember your manners before royalty."

"In public," Gwaine protested cheerfully. "Fifty people or more."

Arthur barked a short laugh, remembering the informal ceremony in a fugitives' cave, Gwaine the first man he'd knighted personally, and a commoner. "I think a king's worth at least twenty," he said. "Am I right, King Rodor?"

The old man managed a tired smile.

Caerleon said, "Depends on the king, maybe."

A bit of silence. Mark had the short version of the reason for the other royal's presence, and Arthur had contrived a low word or two to Rodor, but none of them were exactly comfortable with Caerleon, yet.

Then Gwaine added, "Couldn't agree more. Our Arthur, there, might be close to fifty on his own."

He was _almost_ serious.

"I'm flattered," Arthur said dryly.

"Don't be," Merlin told him, putting down the cloth he'd been using to clean the skin around Mark's head wound, high on the left corner of his forehead. "You'll notice he didn't specify how many men you're worth – it's because he'll recalculate based on how many others are present, to keep the tally at forty-nine."

"So if there are already forty-nine men in the room…" Percival inquired, kneeling beside Kay at the cook-fire.

"Then I've got to pretend Arthur isn't even there," Gwaine said, giving his head a mock-sorrowful shake.

"You do that anyway," Kay dared, lifting red eyebrows as he glanced to be sure he hadn't offended anyone.

"Try that on the training field, next time," Arthur suggested.

A hiss of pain from Mark drew attention, and sobered them a bit, as Merlin's long gentle fingers probed the wound.

"Well," Merlin said, settling back on his haunches and looking up into the prince's face. "We can wake you with every change of the watch tonight, and you can drink this absolutely foul concoction I've got for headaches and hope for the best – or I can use magic, give you a good night's sleep, and a clear-headed ride tomorrow."

Arthur snorted – what a choice – and Merlin shot him another grin.

"It's that bad, is it?" Mark said, unamused.

"I've seen worse," Merlin admitted. "But head wounds are chancy – and miserable to recover from, sometimes. I'd rather be safe than sorry?"

Mark twisted to look at his father-in-law at the fire. Caerleon's eyes glittered with interest. Rodor gave an abbreviated nod – not order nor yet permission, but encouragement.

"Yes, then," Mark conceded, and Arthur came around the stone he was leaning on, to seat himself on it.

Merlin shifted position slightly, holding the prince's head still with one hand on the back of his neck, the other hand hovering confidently above the wound. He spoke the words of the healing spell slowly and clearly, and Mark's shoulders slumped. In a sigh of relief, and the release of pain-tension he probably wasn't even aware of.

"Much better," the prince sighed, and put out his hand. "Thank you, Merlin."

"My pleasure," Merlin said, clasping his hand for a moment, before pushing to his feet. "Although I should caution you to limit your number of drinks for a few days, anyway – Gwaine will tell you why."

Gwaine let out a theatrical groan, and Percival's square-jawed face split with his sudden little-boy grin.

Merlin stepped to the side, hesitated with his hands on his hips, then turned and dropped to crouch on one knee quite close to Caerleon. "And you, my lord?"

Arthur leaned forward in interest and concern – he hadn't realized his captive had been injured. And now it was Caerleon's turn to be the focus of the group's attention.

"What are you talking about," he snarled, straightening to retreat from Merlin – and even from mostly behind the sorcerer-physician, Arthur could guess at the innocently earnest expression his friend wore.

"Your hand," Merlin said, making an abortive gesture. Behind Caerleon, Gwaine mimed throwing a punch, then pointed to the captive king. "You're right-handed, but you're not using it. Your glove is intact, so I'm thinking –"

"It's none of your damn business," Caerleon said rudely.

"Of course it is," Arthur stated. "He's my court physician. And if you think to spite me by retaining an injury sustained while in my care, do reconsider. None of us here wish you pain."

Caerleon glared at Merlin, then at Arthur, then gritted his teeth to remove his glove. "Fine, then."

Merlin hissed in sympathy – and Arthur could tell the knuckles were severely discolored, even in the fading light and from a couple yards' distance. Merlin reached for the injured member, and the king jerked back.

"Sire, I need to –" Merlin said.

Caerleon snapped, "Can't you do this without touching me?"

"Can't you do this without interrupting or insulting me?" Merlin returned, sitting back on his heels for a moment. Arthur felt his eyebrows lift, and did his best not to mirror Gwaine's grin where his captive-guest could see.

Caerleon stiffened, studying Merlin. Glanced again at Arthur with more uncertainty than he'd seen on the warrior's face, yet. Arthur made a courteous gesture, and Caerleon extended his hand again, though he said nothing. Merlin's hands were just as gentle as when he treated their allies. A muscle worked beneath the king's scruffy almost-white beard as the younger man manipulated the injured digits.

"This will hurt momentarily," Merlin warned, and put the strength in his hands to use.

Arthur heard the sodden snap of bones re-aligning and winced, but he thought Caerleon himself flinched more at the golden gleam of magic performed in the physician's eyes, than the physical pain.

Merlin sighed and rose to his feet again, stepping back as Caerleon tested the integrity of his hand, absolutely without expression. "You'll want to avoid hitting anyone or anything for a few days, but that soreness should be gone by the morning."

Neither of them expected Caerleon's thanks, so they weren't disappointed when he merely turned halfway toward the cook-fire in clear dismissal.

"Now you," Arthur told Merlin, who gave him a quizzical look. "Going to wash your face before dinner?"

Merlin touched the mark on his face, and grimaced. Arthur watched him retrieve the water-skin, pour a handful of water, and scrub his face – carelessly enough that Arthur wasn't worried anymore.

"Just a scratch?" he suggested. "You've got a – you missed a –" Arthur stepped closer, taking the water-skin to wet his own fingertips, rubbing out the smear on Merlin's temple. And kept rubbing, as he had done when they were still boys, harder and into Merlin's hair. Across the top of his skull with his knuckles, feeling a grin stretch his face. The longer it was between times like these, the less Merlin expected it.

Merlin laughed a surprised protest, trying to push his hands away. "Come now, Your Majesty, aren't we a bit old for –"

"Do not say _old_ to me," Arthur said, releasing him with a gentle shove toward the others, gathering at the fire for the meal, but watching the by-play between king and sorcerer with varying levels of amusement. "When I get too old to give you a hard time, Merlin, you can bury me."

"Never!" Merlin said, a bit more disheveled as he disentangled himself from Arthur's hands. "How's your knee?"

"It's fine." Arthur added, "Kay and Bors, first watch. Gwaine and Percival, second, and Merlin and I will do third."

Gwaine began, "You always give me the middle watch –"

His complaint dissolved in the camaraderie and banter of a shared meal after a shared victory, with the prospect of sound sleep and a return to civilization on the morrow.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin had fallen asleep moments after an initial attempt to submerge himself in his memory-hunt for the magic that had attacked the druids. Too tired after the day's exertions – he could feel consciousness letting go, and allowed it. Perhaps he could try again, while on watch with Arthur in the pre-dawn morning hours.

He opened his eyes and found himself standing upright, in his old room off the physician's quarters in Camelot, the old wood and meager furnishings glowing golden and comfortable in the candlelight.

Gaius sat in the chair next the bed, facing away to bend over a person Merlin's experience automatically identified as a patient, by the set of the old man's shoulders, the familiar movement of his hands.

But – Hunith stood near the foot of the bed, wringing her hands in agitation, worry marring the usual serenity of her expression.

"We must call him," she said, to physician or patient or both. "He would want to know – he would want to be here!"

The patient writhed, tossing beneath the thin blanket as if in pain. A low moan ripped the silence of the room. Ripped his heart where he stood.

"My dear, where is the stone," Gaius said, in his kindest bedside tone.

Merlin's feet took him closer, step by step, too slowly. But also, too quickly.

"Please, you must call for him," Gaius urged.

"_No_."

"Frey-"

He came, finally, around Gaius, to see her face. Deathly pale and sparkling with perspiration, lips cracked and eyes hollowed in faint brown bruises.

"No, Arthur needs him! I won't make him choose!" Her hand was clenched into a tight fist beside her face on the pillow, and he could guess what was inside it.

He fought to open his mouth, to spill out the words that filled it – _I'm here, love, I'm with you, I love you, it'll be all right. _ He fought to move even closer, to take her in his arms and hold so tight the pain could never enter between them, and never let go.

"She's lost too much blood," Hunith said desperately.

"I can't stop it," Gaius said, in the same tone.

Freya's movements stilled. Her lips parted and her eyes fastened on the rafters, one tear spilling down the hollowed cheek.

He fought the inexplicable lethargy with a wild fierceness, though it felt like it only propelled him backward, took the room, the horror, his wife, out of focus. He tore his lips apart to scream defiance at whatever unfeeling fate had stolen her breath, her blood, her life –

And gasped, blind in the darkness and the tangle of his bedroll, the smell of the night and the outdoors.

"Merlin?" Gwaine hissed the whisper from his post at watch.

"I'll be back," Merlin pushed out, and didn't wait for his brother's confirmation. Didn't wait even to struggle from his bedroll, before speaking the spell. "_Bedyrene us, astyre us thanonweard!"_

It was a bit disconcerting to arrive upright, free from his blanket's entanglement, in the same cold dark. His nose filled with the smells of must and dust – this room wasn't used much except for storage or an emergency patient, and wasn't routinely cleaned – he stumbled, bruising his shin on the edge of a crate – he was lucky he hadn't landed with his leg _in_ the crate –

Dark. And cold. And deserted. No Freya, dying on his bed. No Gaius suddenly able and astute, no Hunith worrying…

Merlin was dizzy from the dream, from the magic. He considered leaving the room, up the stair and through the corridor to his own quarters… where Freya no doubt slept peacefully. But he'd probably given Gwaine quite a shock – which he'd have to explain somehow – and the longer he was gone from the watchtower, the more likely Gwaine would alert Percival, wake Arthur – everyone…

She was fine. She wasn't here, bleeding, dying. It wasn't… he didn't have prophetic dreams like Morgana. It was only his worry for her, and now he'd over-reacted.

Merlin took a deep breath, and repeated the spell. "_Bedyrene us, astyre us thanonweard…"_

His bedroll was still warm. Still tangled. Gwaine was halfway to him, across the circle of firelight; the knight paused at his sudden reappearance. "You okay? What was that?"

"Everything's fine," he whispered back. "Just – checking on something. I'm fine." To prove it, he rolled over, and a moment later heard Gwaine's footsteps retreat back to his watch position.

He didn't think he'd sleep again.

But woke, gasping again. Arthur's hand was on his chest, his eyes golden rather than blue, in the reflected glimmer of coals.

"It's our watch," the king said in a low voice. "Was that a nightmare, Merlin?"

"Yeah," he managed, dragging himself up onto his elbows. "A nightmare."

"You know, men usually have those before heading into danger, not after it's passed." Arthur stood away from him, his voice a familiar mix of concerned sarcasm that made Merlin's heart ache in his chest. "Come on. It'll be light in a few hours, and then we can go home."

Merlin swallowed against the dryness in his throat, blinked away contrary moisture from his eyes. "Right behind you," he whispered.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The sunset was glorious, and took half an hour to accomplish. The low gray clouds had drifted away from the west and were gilded with every shade from blood-red to faint orange to gray-purple and fiery pink, away past the white towers of Camelot.

Gwen laid back on her elbows on one of the blankets that had spread, watching the sky, feeling vaguely that she should be doing something important and queenly – then decided that entertaining royal company _and_ watching the children was enough, for now.

Wishing there was nothing improper in removing her shoes and stockings as the children had done, to feel the new spring grass between her toes at the edge of the blanket where they lounged, talking of babies and husbands. Morgana and Enid were both obviously expectant, Gwen and Freya both experienced mothers. Mithian still a newlywed after two years but pragmatic and level-headed; though inclined to silent reverie, as they all were today, the third day – and especially as dark slunk out from the tree-line, a hundred yards from their blankets at the base of the western castle wall, still warm from the sun's glow.

Gwen listened with a sympathetic expression and half an ear to Morgana's latest expectancy-related woe, keeping an eye on the two young princes. They were holding, she gathered, an impromptu sort of joust – the horses their own galloping legs, the lances their own skinny arms.

Closer on the gently-sloping hillside, Gareth was turning clumsy baby summer-saults through the girls' leaf-and-flower tea party. Nenna scowled and Bethan exclaimed and Marya reasoned – and Gareth turned a pudgy-cheeked version of his father's lady-charming smile on them, and was forgiven.

Perhaps Enid would give birth to a brother for her little son, Gwen thought, it would be good for Gareth to have a boy closer to his own age to play with. If Morgana had a son, he would grow up in Stawell, not Camelot.

"Mama," Marya interrupted the conversation, getting to her feet and shielding her eyes against the last direct rays of the sun. "Is that them – that's Father and the king."

Gwen did _not_ scramble to her feet – it wasn't dignified for a queen to scramble – but turned to give a hand to Morgana, as Freya was helping Enid. Mithian's hand trembled on Gwen's arm the while, and at the foot of the hill the two princes began to shriek and jump like puppies.

One rider emerged from the gloom, two, three… seven? One less than they'd departed with…

She glanced back at Mithian, eyes dark with worry, though no one said anything. Gwen shielded her eyes to see if she could identify the individual riders, as her other hand was caught by her daughter.

"Come on, Mama!" Bethan urged. "Fava's home, 'gain!"

She surrendered to the little girl's impatience, but tossed over her shoulder to Freya, who'd begun gathering the blanket, "Leave it, it can wait."

Halfway down the hill – as Gareth, and Marya in pursuit, tumbled past them – Bethan lost patience and dropped her hand to rush ahead. Gwen kept on, walking at a slower pace to allow the children to greet their fathers. Mithian stepped even with her to exchange another glance, and Enid and Freya were a short distance behind them. Morgana and Nenna, because Lancelot had departed Camelot for Stawell two days ago, had remained by the blankets.

Mithian gave a gasp and rushed forward as Prince Mark – recognizable by the thick braid half as long as Gwen's own – threw himself from his saddle to catch her in a fierce embrace. Both of them turned to the white-haired king, next to a solicitous Sir Kay, all three protesting that Rodor remain in the saddle, by the look of it.

It occurred to Gwen that Caerleon, for all his scowling, looked lonely.

Arthur, Gwaine, and Merlin were off their horses as well; Gwen sighed in relief to recognize them safely home, also. Merlin was on one knee to wrap his daughter in a bear-hug, Arthur lifted Brian to the saddle of the gelding to share a ride with Lucan before turning to catch Bethan and lift her into the crook of one elbow. Gwaine had Gareth on his shoulders, steadying him with one hand around the boy's bare foot, both of them grinning at the world, the child's small fingers tangled in the knight's long hair for balance.

"Hi," Gwen said, meeting Arthur's bearded smile with her own for a light kiss, passing her arms around his ribs as his hands were occupied with his reins and his daughter. "Percival and Bors?" she added, turning to walk with him, back toward the city.

Both of them ignored Lucan and Brian's excited chatter – or argument, it was sometimes hard to distinguish. Merlin lifted Marya to the saddle of his own horse, and moved away from the group to meet Freya.

"Left them to watch the border, and Odin's men," Arthur said. "It's a long story, but I think we've fixed it so Nemeth is secure from Odin."

"Good," Gwen said. She'd gotten to be an expert pretty quickly on evaluating her husband's well-being, internal and external, with a few swift glances, and was confident he'd returned neither injured nor worried. The long story could wait.

And so, found her attention distracted by Merlin. Who looked pale under a scratch across his face, and worried. He spoke very seriously to his wife, and without a smile, and Freya's look of glad welcome slipped into one Gwen often saw on her face as she rendered medical care or assistance. Gentle reassurance. Which Merlin resisted for a pair of heartbeats before enfolding Freya in an unusual embrace – tight and tender.

"Is he all right?" she said to Arthur, keeping her voice low and even so the children would pay no attention to _them_, either.

"I take it he didn't get much sleep last night," Arthur said. His eyes distant and his jaw set with an expression Gwen had first seen the day they'd met – and Merlin chasing a would-be assassin through the winding alleys of Lionys. Worry reined in by trust… but still there.

"He disappeared in the middle of the night," Gwaine said unexpectedly.

Gwen glanced back to see the roguish knight unusually serious, leading his own mount right behind them. She bumped into Arthur trying to see Merlin and Freya past Gareth on Gwaine's shoulders.

"I mean, literally disappeared," Gwaine added, and this time Arthur glanced back. "Just for, half a moment."

"But definitely magic," Arthur said.

"Yeah."

"He didn't say anything." The wrinkles around Arthur's eyes deepened, and Bethan – uncomprehending but instinctive – stroked her father's soft short beard as he carried her.

"Maybe he was checking on something, and it was fine," Gwen suggested.

"I wonder," Enid said quietly, her fingers laced with Gwaine's free hand. He lifted their joined hands to kiss hers, as Gwen glanced back.

"Wonder what, love?" Gwaine said.

Enid didn't elaborate, but _her_ other hand rested on the bulge of her belly, and her eyes met Gwen's.

Gwen made the intuitive leap herself – and took a longer look behind the knight and his wife, at the sorcerer and _his_ wife. Freya was petite and trim, nothing to substantiate the thought Gwen expected she and Enid shared.

But – that would explain Merlin's farewell to her, too. _Could you keep an eye on Freya while we're gone…_

"Let's have a private dinner," she suggested to Arthur. "Just a relaxing evening. Let the rest of the world wait until tomorrow, hm?"

"I like that plan," Gwaine remarked.

Arthur tucked her a little closer against his side as they walked together. "Sounds like heaven, Guinevere," he told her with a smile.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It had never been officially confirmed, but Freya rather suspected that the court physician's presence in the courtyard to welcome foreign dignitaries was dependent on the needs of his patients.

Certainly Gaius had never stood and waited every time an important visitor arrived – especially during the chaotic busyness of Arthur's marriage – and then years later, Uther's funeral. And Merlin himself had never shown much inclination for such formalities, either, whether Arthur had ever discussed the protocol with him or not. Unless it was someone he didn't know or trust implicitly, and then he was there less as Arthur's court physician and more as Arthur's surreptitious shield.

And it wasn't as though Merlin didn't have other things to do.

There were still questions regarding the disease he'd been treating for a month among the druids. Research into the details of topography in the White Mountains. And, Freya had caught him with a medical journal open to the section on carrying and birthing babies, last night after Marya was asleep.

But he was present. Nearly noon, and the courtyard a maelstrom of activity, except for the welcoming party waiting on the wide stone steps.

Perhaps because he'd been with Arthur when word came. She herself only lingered because she'd been entering the citadel from the lower town, basket of gleanings from Hunith's garden over one elbow when the shouts went up.

Troops approaching from the south.

Eyes on the open gate, the drawn portcullis, she sidled to a position a stair above and just behind her husband. She wasn't dressed to be included in the greetings, but seeing Merlin, she wanted to be nearer to him.

Especially after their not-quite-fight last night.

It wasn't his fault, and it wasn't hers. It was just, the way things were. With each babe she lost, it grew more complicated, for both of them. She wondered if he'd distance himself emotionally to spare the eventual pain. He wondered if she'd blame him, for her condition, for being alone with it while he was gone.

_Are you all right?_ The sheer intensity of his greeting had startled her, when she reached the mostly-dismounted party of men, sunset last night. It was almost as if he was angry.

_Yes, I'm fine. Merlin_… Then, more emphatically, _Yes. I'm fine._

And, almost an accusation. _You weren't going to use it, were you? The ware-stone._

_ I… didn't have to. I'm fine, I said._

_ Marya told me, you had a stomachache yesterday._

She'd rolled her eyes, at Merlin asking their daughter, how was Mama, and the stifling concern. Though she had to admit objectively, it was probably difficult for him to know how much concern she wanted him to show, at any given moment in time. Depending as that did, upon the delicately-balanced emotions of a pregnant female.

_Delicacies for the visiting princesses at a banquet the night before_, she'd told him, _didn't agree with me._

He didn't think it was funny.

Freya adjusted her basket to free one hand, and reached to place it lightly on his shoulder, teasing the edge of the long sleeveless cream-tan coat he wore over his red shirt, feeling tension in his muscles. Not to distract him, or remind him to think of her, of them, but just to show support. For a moment she thought, he didn't notice her touch. Or, he didn't welcome her touch, at least in that moment.

She understood. On one hand, he absolutely had the right to know she'd conceived a child of his, again. And on the other hand, it absolutely complicated the responsibilities of his job and his destiny.

And on the third hand – she had a right to be illogical, even in her own mind, especially in her own mind, she was pregnant for goodness' sake – he was quite right about her use of the ware-stone.

Then he turned his head and shrugged his shoulder at the same time, to bring her hand to his lips, the whiskers of his beard prickly-rough on her fingers.

A trumpet sounded, and hooves clattered, and the vanguard rode into the courtyard – in Lionys green with the silver rampant lion on the tunics over their chainmail. Behind them, rows of cavalry poured into the enclosed space til the yard looked a living breathing holiday wreath of green leaves, the occasional red cloak of a knight of Camelot like the holly-berries.

She lost count, and the sheer number of knights and soldiers relaxed the arrival, even as it served as a reminder of imminent warfare.

One tall dark man with tight white curls climbed the stairs to meet Queen Guinevere's glad rush and call of, "Father!"

King Arthur was just behind, reaching to greet his father-in-law, saying, "Lord Lionel, welcome – I rather expected Elyan to be leading your men."

Freya was too close not to overhear, though she politely looked and pretended interest elsewhere.

"Thank you, Arthur," Lord Lionel said. "I've missed you too, Gwen – no, I made Elyan stay home. I was actually in the process of composing a letter to you when your call for arms arrived. Elyan's recently engaged – yes, I know – so I told him – ah, the children!"

"Grandfather!" A trio of shrieks from the open door, where nursemaid and manservant alike struggled with their charges' less-than-royal behavior.

Freya laughed out loud, and Merlin threw her a twinkly blue-eyed grin over his shoulder – _no matter what, I love you and we'll get through this too, together_ – and she glanced down the stairs to see two other guests from Lionys approaching _them_.

Both in nondescript traveling cloaks. Both carrying the extra pounds of older folk, eyes bright and serious in their dusty faces. Alert, and intent.

One, with bald head and neck-tattoos. The other, with pointed eyebrows and a blue scarf over her curly gray-streaked dark hair.

"Finna!" Freya exclaimed, smiling happily and hopping down two steps to hug her mother's old friend, and something of a colleague when she lived in Lionys. Careful of her basket, and Finna's pack, she nevertheless lost herself for a moment in the older woman's ample embrace, inhaling an odd but homey smell of rhubarb from her.

"Emrys." Beside her, Alator greeted her husband with his odd brogue. "It is good to see you well, after all this time."

"Thank you, you as well – both of you," Merlin said, and Freya drew back, expecting to see uncomplicated pleasure in the older woman's expression – startled at the clouds of apprehension, instead. "What brings you to Camelot with Lord de Gransse?"

"We come as messengers, carrying an important gift. We come," Alator said, in his slow, deliberate way, "for you, Emrys."

**A/N: Some dialogue from ep.5.4 "Another's Sorrow".**

**It feels filler-ish to me (and a bit short?). But sometimes that's necessary. **_**And**_**, I got all four povs again, plus a day-after update!**


	8. Prophecy and Death

**Chapter 8: Prophecy and Death**

_Aithusa_. Merlin ignored his physical surroundings to stretch out his link with his dragon kin. _Aithusa? Where are you?_

_ I watch the northeast coast, my friend, as you asked._

_ We'll probably leave Camelot in two days_, Merlin told him. _Do you have anything for me to report to Arthur in the morning? _

_ Many boats have landed. I have shown myself but I have not attacked, and neither have they. Nor have they begun making their encampment permanent. _

_If they move as a body, let me know,_ Merlin requested. _And stay with them?_

_As my lord commands. _

He heard the humor that lightened the title, and smiled himself. The smile, however, was short-lived, and gone when he opened his eyes.

Merlin glared at the box sitting in the cleared center of his desk in the inner library room, slouching in his seat. Deceptively innocuous, the wood intricately carved and darkened with age, glowing with the oil of centuries of reverent handling.

"Not even you, Emrys," Alator remarked, glancing over his shoulder from a perusal of Merlin's shelf of books, "can hope to discover the contents without opening it."

A sound from the door of the room drew his attention – not regretfully. And he smiled involuntarily at the sight of Arthur's younger son inching one curious eye around the lintel like the druid child behind the tree.

"Brian," he said, acknowledgement and invitation, both. "It's late – aren't you supposed to be in bed? George will be looking for you."

The boy rubbed one shoulder around the doorway, shrugging the other. Merlin noticed the bruise on his jaw immediately, and leaned forward in his chair, but Brian's posture made him decide to hold his questions, for now. He only beckoned, welcoming the prince to the sanctuary he'd sought. Brian kept a cautious watch on Alator as he came at a hurried walk to Merlin's desk.

"Prince Brian," Merlin said, letting a bit of warm formality enter his voice, "This is Alator of the Catha."

"Many years gone, Emrys," Alator murmured.

"Alator," Merlin returned, "This is Prince Brian." He waited until the man had approached, and given the boy a respectful bow of head and shoulders before adding, "A student of mine."

Alator's thick eyebrows rose up his bald head. "A user of magic?" he questioned, speaking to the boy, who turned pink and nodded. "A credit to the Pendragon line, young prince," the old druid commented, exchanging a glance with Merlin – he'd noticed the bruise, too.

Brian ducked his head. "Yes, my lord – er… sir?"

Alator's eyebrows were still up, and Merlin's smile needed no prompting; the older druid took pity and turned his attention back to the books. Brian leaned on his hands on Merlin's desk and rose to his tiptoes.

"Is that magic, Uncle Merlin? That box? That's magic, isn't it?"

"Can you sense it?" Merlin asked with idle curiosity.

"It's got letters on it – runes," Brian explained. "And I want to touch it – only I don't."

Merlin nodded, accepting the childish explanation of his reaction to the magic he unconsciously sensed. "You're right," he said. "It is magic."

"Are you gonna open it?" Brian said. Looking eager but apprehensive at once, at the prospect.

Merlin smiled. "I haven't decided yet," he said.

"Something bad in there?"

"I don't know," Merlin told him. "That's why I haven't decided whether or not to open it." He ignored Alator's pointed glance.

"_You_ can take care of it," Brian said confidently.

Merlin's heart twisted in his chest, with love for the child who believed in him wholeheartedly, and sympathy for the innocence that would someday discover, the adults around him were not infallible.

"What about you?" he said lightly, leaning forward and reaching to brush his forefinger along the bruise on the prince's jaw. "Something you were taking care of?"

Brian gave a childish growl of dissatisfaction. Maybe embarrassment. "Lucan hit me."

Merlin felt _his_ eyebrows climb. "You were fighting with your brother?"

Brian squirmed. "Not really. We were trying to see if we could hit each other."

"Not in training, certainly," Merlin said. Perhaps… he'd heard Marya say often enough, _Grandmama, watch this_, to guess that perhaps the princes had been showing off for their newly-arrived Grandfather the only way they knew how – trying to best each other wrestling. And, since Tristan and Isolde had taken Istan north with them on Arthur's mission to Bayard and Lot, Lucan had probably instinctively turned to his brother for the rougher play, again.

Brian dragged his weight up on the desktop, kicked the bottom of it with his toes. "He said I couldn't hit him, even if I tried. He said I couldn't stop him hitting me."

Merlin hummed in mild disapproval. He thought he understood, at least a little. Brian's illnesses as a baby had left him less physically strong than his brother – but Lucan hadn't shown any ability to perform magic, either. It was a difference in strengths and weaknesses that they would have to adjust to and accept, as they grew up together.

Then Brian said, "Did you ever hit my father?" Alator turned around again, interested, though Brian didn't notice.

"I tried to, once," he admitted, smiling at the brief brush of nostalgia in his memory. Long ago, when he and Arthur were boys and strangers, in a dark tunnel under a mountain.

"What happened?" If Brian hadn't asked the question, Merlin suspected, Alator was going to.

And Merlin's smile became a grin; he said lightly, "I missed."

Brian looked dissatisfied. "I think, if you tried to now, you could hit him."

Merlin very deliberately did _not_ look at the older druid. "Maybe," he said gently. "But I'm not going to. Friends don't hit each other just to see if they can. You can ask your father; he'll say the same. And you can tell Lucan I said so. Now, off to bed, don't you think? George will be cross if he can't find you."

The prince pushed himself back from the desk and gave Merlin an uncomplicated smile. "George is always cross."

"Can you blame him?" Merlin said, making a shooing gesture, and Brian danced on his toes across to the door.

"Good night, Uncle Merlin!"

Merlin sighed. "Good night."

Alator met his eyes and switched his gaze to the box with silent emphasis. Merlin felt quite like a chastened student, himself.

He could read the symbols inserted into the decorative carving, the letters than Brian had noticed. _Digolnes_ and _asaelan_ and _geinseglian_ and _anlipe_. Emrys.

Prophecy had led him to Dinas Emrys. Prophecy and the choices of men like Vortigern and Ruadan, who had no thought of destiny, only of themselves, but were used anyway… Prophecy written by Aurelian because he'd _seen_ the future in the crystal.

Prophecy and his own choices, Arthur's choices, had identified the two of them as the foretold chosen One. Join the key. Both become. His own spell on Arthur, _keep the hope await the king, once and future…_

The crystal's images had led to Mordred's choice of death, younger even than Merlin walking to the dragonmount.

The crystal's images had warned him of Freya's involvement in his life, the bastet curse, Morgana's coronation. All very foreboding to see in advance, all very encouraging to look back on and see in clarity of truth. The richness of love - the bond of trust forged between six men now the core of Arthur's fighting force – knowledge of Arthur's irrefutable destiny. All so unexpected, based on the images.

But, not something he was eager to shoulder, once again.

What Freya had once said to him long ago on a dark fragrant rooftop in Lionys. Do you believe in destiny? The choice has to be made. Even if it's been foretold. You can't just stand still and let everything happen without you…

"Aithusa once told me, taking action based on auguries is a risky business.* Any action you take can bring about the very catastrophe you are trying to avoid," he said to Alator, not touching the box with his fingers, but lightly exploring it with his magic. The runes represented the magic of a full dozen individuals, melded to accomplish the seal – though the box was too tiny for a physical locking mechanism – only he, it seemed, could open.

"That is wise advice," Alator allowed. "However, _knowledge_ is not the same as _action_."

"Forewarned is forearmed?" Merlin suggested, pinching his lips thoughtfully.

"For hundreds of years, the Catha have guarded their ancient knowledge," Alator said. "But now the time has come to pass it on to you, Emrys. We have fulfilled our duty – what you choose to do with it is up to you."

He remembered telling Gilli, _highly unpleasant, I almost wish it had never happened – foreknowledge is dangerous and uncertain._

Despite his personal aversion, which might possibly stem from fear of owning blame, the particular pain of expecting something he _could not_ prevent, he owed it to the men and women who had prepared the box, sealing it and keeping it, waiting and hoping, to open. To know.

Whether he used the knowledge – whether it was possible not to use it, once knowing it – was another question.

And Arthur had called a meeting for the morning.

Whatever the outcome, the afternoon and evening would be spent packing and organizing, and the following morning, the army would move out. Warriors, workers, healers. To Stawell, a two-and-a-half day journey, and then to Camlann.

Could he sit beside Arthur, in the meeting and on that journey, having ignored what might be useful information? _I didn't want to know, because… I was afraid. I refused to carry the burden of the future, even for your sake, sire, so my heart and my spirit would be more comfortable._

Merlin glared at the little box, and it clicked open.

The sides were surprisingly thick – thence the weight – the hollow unexpectedly small. But sufficient for the tiny scroll of parchment. He reached for it, and unrolled it; the sheet was smaller than his palm. The letters inked there – fine and dark and precise – not smudged or faded. Not blocky or flowing, but something in the middle. Practical, yet artistic.

And in a language he couldn't read. He squinted at the shape and style of the writing, and spoke aloud, "It's written in the language of the Catha."

"Yes," Alator said, unsurprised. He didn't even look at Merlin, as he lifted down a volume, and paged through it slowly as he made his way back to Merlin's desk.

Merlin tried to sound out the unfamiliar words in his head - he did know enough of the language to be able to translate it, though not to read it outright - and had a shock as he came to a proper noun. A name. Camlann.

His hands felt cold, even as a great heat began deep in his chest.

Another such word snared his attention, the last sentence. Arthur. Merlin stared at the word, but it did not change. Undeniable. Three hundred years ago, the Catha had written the name of his king.

A helluva lot more specific than _hair of sun and gaze of sky_. And paired with _Camlann_ – excruciatingly foreboding.

Alator set the book next to the box. A compendium of languages. And of course, that of the Catha included. The older druid stepped behind the desk, placing his hand on Merlin's shoulder.

"Some few men are born to burn twice as bright for half the time, as other men," he said. "While some are born to carry a heavy burden in the darkness, interminable and lonely, to spare the rest of humanity. Most of us never know our destiny until we can remember it as past… those few who glimpse the path ahead of their feet, can choose but to stride forward in confidence and hope, or lag in resistance and despair. But the road must be traveled nevertheless."

"Do you believe the future can be changed?" Merlin said. His voice sounded odd in his ears, quite calm.

Camlann. And Arthur. And, quite possibly, the little parchment assuring them of a splendid victory, to keep their determination strong until it was achieved.

Somehow, he didn't think so. That wasn't their luck.

"I believe it can be changed," Alator said, clapping his shoulder again before moving with a druid's stealthy tread to the doorway. "I do not believe it can be denied. But who knows? I have been wrong before. Guard that carefully, Merlin – it will help you in the dark days to come."

Merlin glared at the box as if an adder had emerged, hissing from the box, to strike poison into his veins that would blacken and blacken his heart til no hope was left… and perhaps then he would miss his chance for hope because he was no longer looking for it.

_ Take magic's soul to all men's cost… if blood be spilled then all is lost…_

He laid the parchment down, and opened the book.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Another early morning, another meeting. The last meeting, Arthur hoped, but what he knew about ruling and about war, there were always delays. So that action, when it came, was almost startling, sometimes. At least he knew from Merlin that the Saxons on the coast hadn't moved, as of the previous night.

He usually paced in his room, waiting for the appointed time to arrive, and he could make his entrance with the members already in attendance, and no reason to wait. But this morning, he felt stifled and confined, and found himself longing for fresh air and warm sun and the wide sky over him.

A dozen memories nudged him as he emerged on the high open walkway. Here he'd argued with Merlin about facing bandits in his hometown. Here he'd waited with his half-sister for her half-sister's visit.

"Father!"

He turned his head to see Lucan scramble up from a shadow by the base of the wall. "Are you supposed to be up here now?"

"Auntie Freya didn't set us any assignments today because she's busy." Lucan gave him a hopeful smile. "Can I go with you, Father?"

Arthur opened his mouth to say no. Serious were the matters they dealt with, and perhaps even frightening to a small boy. But… he remembered all too well years of wishing to be at his father's side, to be allowed to listen in at important meetings. And then later, years of being forced to remain in meetings that seemed horribly boring and mind-numbingly inconsequential. Perhaps he should try a different way, with his young prince.

"Do you know what confidential means, Lucan?" he said, so serious that his son's smile vanished too – but not the eagerness. "It means you say not one word of what you hear in this room to anyone who isn't present. Do you understand? If you have questions, you wait to ask someone in private – me or your mother or Uncle Merlin–"

"Or Sir Percival?" Lucan said.

Arthur nodded. "Or Sir Percival. You must not be distracting. You must stand or sit very still, and if you find you cannot do this, you must let me know – without interrupting – and I will give you permission to be excused. Can you do this?"

Solemn as an eight-year-old crown prince. "Yes, Father, I promise."

Arthur didn't try to hide the pride in his smile. "Very well, then."

He turned to follow his son and paused, noticing another small figure that had been companion to Lucan, but had remained in the shade. He'd assumed it was Brian at first glance, but now that he thought about it, Brian would have come to him, too. No matter how much attention he gave his sons, they always craved more, and he loved it. Partly because he thought they'd grow out of it, one of these days.

Arthur had a few minutes, he thought, and turned his steps toward the spot of shade. The child jumped up, then spread a dark green skirt in a girlish curtsy. "Your Highness."

"Marya," he said, smiling. Merlin's daughter was like her mother – quiet and reserved to the point of being shy, and while they were familiar, they weren't close like he was with his own daughter. "You don't have to do that, you know. If my children can call your parents Uncle Merlin and Auntie Freya, you should call me uncle too, don't you think? I've heard you call the queen Auntie Gwen."

"Mama says to remember my manners," Marya said.

"Would she could teach your father some," Arthur joked. The little girl smiled, but didn't truly understand his jest, he thought.

"Mama says it's rude to call a king by his name, if you're not royalty yourself," Marya added.

"Your father calls me Arthur," he reminded the little girl gently. He honestly wouldn't mind the familiarity, but he knew better than to contradict another parent's instructions to their own child.

"Mama says Father's earned the right to call you Arthur," Marya said, blinking up at him. Merlin's blue eyes in Freya's delicately pretty face, and Arthur smiled back at her.

"Yes, he has. He definitely has." About a hundred times over.

"My father's a dragonlord," she said. A small child's abrupt and seemingly unconnected change of subject. Although, maybe she'd overheard Merlin talking about Aithusa, the night before.

"Yes,that's so."

Acting on impulse, Arthur picked up Marya as he might have picked up Bethan, to sit on the inner edge of one of the breaks in the crenellation of the wide parapet; he leaned on one elbow next to her.

"He's the only one," she continued, unperturbed by the arrangement. "Because I don't have a grandfather."

Or, maybe Arthur's children had been full of talk about Lord Lionel coming to visit, and that had made Marya think.

"Mama says my father was a dragonlord before he was born," Marya added. "That's funny, don't you think? He could command them before he could even talk?"

"That is funny," Arthur agreed.

"But they were asleep until Father grew up," she told him, confidentially, as if she thought he didn't know, or had forgotten. "And he could talk then, and tell them what to do."

Arthur felt a smile threatening – just let Kilgarrah hear their relationship so described, and he'd raise hell, probably.

"Only…" Her chin dropped to her chest, and she kicked her heels on the stone of the castle. "Only, my father hasn't got any sons. Just me. Lucan says it's important for a king to have a son, he's crown prince and your air. But my father hasn't got a son – and he says dragons live years and years, forever almost – but my father won't live forever but he hasn't got a son to be his air." She paused for breath and Arthur opened his mouth but found no words ready. "And I'm only a girl."

Of all the people she could have chosen to unburden herself to, it had to be him. "Your father loves you, you know," Arthur told her, feeling awkward. "He has never wished you were a boy, and he never will. Even if Auntie Gwen and I didn't have our two rascals, Bethan would be perfect the way she is. Just like you are perfect the way you are. And about the dragons – don't worry, huh? They're all tangled up in fate and destiny and… it'll work out. You've got to trust that, just like your father does and just like I do, okay?"

She nodded, and he jumped her down from the wall.

"Now, have you got something you're meant to be doing, or would you like to come with me to my meeting, too?" he added.

"Mama's going to see Grandmama Hunith and Great-uncle Gaius," Marya told him, perking up at the remembrance. "She's got to get all the plants the sick people in the north will need when you go on your trip tomorrow."

"Sounds like fun," Arthur said; he sighed as he followed her to the door. "You sure I can't go and visit Gaius and Hunith, and you can run my meeting?"

She giggled and whisked away down an adjacent hall with a flip of her green skirt. Arthur felt a pang, remembering the days when he chased Morgana and both of them laughed and waited for Uther to return from a trip that almost always meant war. At that age, he'd never once thought his father might not return…

He turned a corner and found himself ten feet behind his wife and her father, Lucan swinging on his grandfather's free hand, chatting as they made their way to the council chamber; he sped up his pace til he was just behind them.

"A lovely girl, really," Lionel was saying. "The sister of one of my own knights – like his father and grandfather before him."

Guinevere glanced over her shoulder at him, radiant in her purple satin gown, her dainty crown perched on curls and tiny white flowers, both. Happy to be discussing her brother's happiness.

"It's an old tradition," Lord Lionel added, following her look to meet Arthur's eyes with a twinkle in his own, and a nod of respectful greeting. "But one that has value, I think – to exempt a young man from warfare, from the time of his betrothal to his first year's anniversary."

"Hm," Arthur said, nodding to one of the guards who swung the double doors of the council chamber open for them. "Is that why you advised me to delay my proposal to your daughter until after I'd worked out the assassination plot, ten years ago?"

Lionel blustered cheerfully and Gwen laughed, as they entered the anticipation-charged atmosphere of the room.

He greeted the men and women present as he met them, and not by rank. Rodor and Mark, Morgana and Mithian. Percival, Gwaine, and Bodiver, Geoffrey and the other lords, Tindr and Nollar. By the far wall, Bors and Kay and Caerleon.

Family, friends, fighters. Allies, some-time antagonists.

All of them necessary, to argue and encourage until the best course of action emerged.

Almost, he missed Merlin.

He might have, had Merlin not occupied the seat on his immediate right, as always. Had Arthur not been in the years-long habit of finding and checking his sorcerer visually, almost every time they were together. Some men it took years to learn how to read, and hours til they had been read. Merlin, with all the complexity of character contained in that lithe, unassuming figure, wore his emotions pretty openly.

And today, something was wrong.

Merlin was already seated. And, not in conversation with anyone, but deep in his own thoughts – slouched in his chair, one hand on the tabletop near the edge as if to brace himself, hold himself to that stillness.

But it was too public a situation for Arthur to question Merlin and get anything more than a sincere and inaccurate, _I'm fine, Arthur_.

"I am going to assume that everyone present is acquainted," he spoke loudly, to gain the attention and start the meeting. "And skip introductions, I hope the urgent nature of our business will provide ample reason for you to forgive me if this is not the case. Please be seated." He waited a moment until most of the shuffling and whispering had died down, before speaking again. "The majority of our attention this morning must needs focus on our preparations for Camlann."

Beside him, Merlin flinched.

He glanced aside, but the sorcerer neither moved nor spoke, his eyes set on a single point of the table's carving. Arthur nodded to Percival and said, "But first, the report from Nemeth – Sir Percival?"

The biggest knight clasped his hands behind him and spoke to the council, "Sir Bors and I have confirmed that Odin has withdrawn his army from Nemeth and its lands."

Arthur had already heard the knights' report in private and communicated it to Rodor, Mark, and Mithian, but other members of the council who hadn't yet heard, displayed various signs of relief.

"All thanks to you," Rodor said clearly, looking at Arthur.

"Well, everyone played their part," Arthur said, ready to move on to more pressing business. "Feel free to remain in Camelot as long as you need to recover."

Mark spoke up, "We will be returning to Nemeth as soon as possible, and I expect to march with a contingent of knights to join you in the White Mountains when such a thing will not unnecessarily weaken Nemeth." Arthur nodded in acknowledgement.

Rodor, it seemed, wasn't through expressing gratitude. "Camelot is fortunate to have such a king as you."

"I am the fortunate one," Arthur answered. He glanced at his young son, perched on the edge of Guinevere's satin-covered knees to lean his elbows on the table, chin resting in cupped hands. "Camelot would be nothing were it not for the courage and loyalty of its friends."

"An alliance is worth nothing more than parchment and ink, unless the ruler who signs it has the character to keep his word with deeds," Lord Lionel observed. Just down Arthur's left from Gwen and Morgana, he was seated next to the old king.

"Indeed," Rodor said, turning to face him. "And what material benefit did Arthur gain from upholding our agreement? He risked his life and that of his men and didn't so much as mention a cost in land or tribute."

Arthur felt more heat in his face than he liked. "I don't believe that ruling is about the exploitation of advantage," he said. "Nor about garnering power from a situation of need. I _have_ asked my allies for supplies and men –"

"Because you intend to lead a battle against an enemy that threatens all of us," Lionel observed.

"The warning came to us," Arthur stated. "And I would not ask another kingdom, another king, to face a foe I was not willing to face myself – and I _have_ been rewarded for our foray into Nemeth, substantially. Odin has agreed to a treaty of peace, allowing us to focus on the Saxon threat."

"You could've killed Odin, you had every reason."

Arthur's head turned to see Caerleon saunter forward from the wall. There was no sneer on his face, only a private sort of intensity. _Here and now_? Arthur asked him silently.

"You could have pressed him to surrender more land, required him to pay reparations to Rodor, demanded he disband his army by any percentage you chose," Caerleon continued. "Had the Saxon threat not pressed you from the north, would you have been as lenient with Odin?"

"He did something more important," Merlin said softly. "He gave the people of this land – and Nemeth – and Odin's kingdom – hope for the future."

"And dignity," Caerleon said. The concentration of his gaze held avid curiosity, the word spoken with a sort of surprised chagrin. For a moment no one else said anything.

Then Lionel said, "To sign a treaty with Odin is a great achievement, and it brings a united kingdom one step closer."

"Which will all be for nothing if we are overrun by Saxons," Arthur added, to pull the conversation back to the point. He noticed that Lucan had relaxed back into his mother's shoulder, blinking languidly.

Morgana leaned forward and said, "Arthur. You're willing to make allies of men like Odin –" her green eyes flicked to Caerleon, retreating silently to join those who were standing to observe, and Arthur heard her silent inclusion of their captive-guest – "without war, without penalty. Have you considered treating with the Saxons in like manner?"

"Morgana, you saw the battlefield yourself," Arthur said. "Surely that means war is inevitable, and any truce talks only delay that? Would it even be honorable for us to meet their leaders knowing the battle will occur regardless?"

"Can the future be changed?" Merlin said in a low voice, not meeting anyone's eyes. Arthur was too distracted to try to figure out what was on his friend's mind from what he said in this meeting.

"What if," Morgana persisted, "what if there are some among them who wish to surrender, or retreat? Shouldn't they be given the chance?"

"Morgana," Arthur said, "be reasonable. They wouldn't be there to fight us if they wanted to surrender or retreat."

"But the soldiers –"

"Are honor-bound to obey their commanders," Arthur said.

His throat felt a bit dry – his men were honor-bound to obey his command… perhaps the idea of attempting to talk to the Saxons before weapons were drawn wasn't a bad idea. Even if war was inevitable, wouldn't he want to exhaust any opportunity of peace first? Was it a waste of time to try, knowing the eventual outcome, or was it perhaps a sort of necessity, to keep his integrity?

"I'll keep it in mind," he told Morgana. "Depending on a dozen different factors when we arrive. That's the best I can do."

Her lips twisted sourly, and he could tell she wanted to argue. What he couldn't tell was why. Why this would be important to her, unless she'd seen more than she'd told, in her vision?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin found it hard to concentrate on the meeting.

_ …The great horn sounds a cold dawn at Camlann… There Arthur will meet his end…_

If it hadn't been Alator, Merlin might seriously consider the possibility that the scrap and the sealed box constituted some elaborate and cruel hoax.

He was aware in a vague way of the discussion of Nemeth, and Caerleon's insertion roused him to comment. He looked at the barbarian king and could almost _see_ the unconscious persuasion of Arthur's sterling character working on the man.

But, if their lands were all united against the common threat of the Saxons – if the battle was won decisively and the enemy routed – would Arthur's destiny be complete? And then…

Morgana's suggestion of treating with the Saxons was a surprise and a shock.

Because the fiery princess would normally be criticizing Arthur for his leniency with Odin and Caerleon, not complimenting him. She was a bit more like Uther than Arthur was, when it came to ruling, sometimes – a bit less forgiving, a bit more calculating. Normally Merlin would expect Morgana to be urging Arthur to greater haste toward battle – Stawell was in the line of the Saxons march south, after all.

Unless she'd seen, what he'd just read. Merlin shuddered.

Almost he might be persuaded to grasp at the idea of a treaty, as a way of preventing that horn sounding Arthur's last battle. Except for the smothering knowledge that the visions seen by Morgana and Lochru could not be averted – though the meaning and significance might be different than they supposed, now. But the words. There Arthur will meet his end.

He could rage and rail and plot and scheme, and end up causing it. He could stand listlessly by and watch it happen and feel no guilt because it was inevitable and inescapable. And feel every last scrap of guilt anyone felt, ever. Weighing down his heart for all eternity.

"Can the future be changed?" he said aloud, tossing the words like pebbles into the current of meeting-discussion. Even though no one could answer that question.

Unless…

"Arthur," he said again, hearing a bit of the turmoil he felt inside creep into his voice. He heard nothing but his heartbeat, thundering an empty echo in his chest, saw nothing but the attentive concern of his king, just beside him. "If we didn't – fight at Camlann, is there another location in the White Mountains that would suit our purposes strategically?"

Arthur studied him a moment. And if they were alone, he might laugh or tease or question, but Merlin's days of blurting thoughtless nonsense in council meetings was mostly past.

So he didn't say, _why_. He didn't say, _is it important_ – if it wasn't, Merlin wouldn't have said it, and Arthur knew that.

The keen blue gaze shifted over Merlin's left shoulder in thoughtfulness. "Tristan mentioned earthworks on one of the hills, didn't he?" he said.

Gwaine's voice came from somewhere beyond Merlin's right ear. "Badon Hill."

"I'm sure we could look at the maps again, trace the most probably route south from the coast, and come up with alternative locations to meet them in combat, stop their advance. But, Merlin – " Arthur set his jaw – "you know the farther north into the mountains we go, the more vulnerable our supply line to Stawell becomes? The danger increases of being cut off, besieged without any way to replenish food and water, or evacuate wounded."

Merlin sagged a bit. Arthur was right about that.

"Have you heard something more from the dragons?" Arthur said. As if they were alone – and this was Arthur's way of saying, _I know something's wrong, what is it_ – and Merlin almost wished they were. He felt anything but calm and in control, this morning, and a bit confused and embarrassed that he could be so shaken. A bit conflicted over his deliberate delay in mentioning this development to his kin. And though he didn't care to betray emotion before men like Caerleon or Tindr – he knew their allies and knights deserved as much information as possible.

"No, but I –" He paused to clear his throat. "I can ask?" Arthur gave him a nod, and he added, "Give me a few minutes."

Merlin closed his eyes and sank into the light meditative state that was best for these long-distance mental conversations, hearing the king address the readiness of the supply train, with the lords tasked with that oversight. Logistics. Boring.

_Kilgarrah_.

Nothing.

Merlin pushed farther, and harder, and met resistance. As he'd never felt from Kilgarrah before – a deliberate block – but why?

He tried again. _Kilgarrah_!

Once, he'd ignored the great dragon. In the confusion of nightmares and earthquakes and the fear of a bloody death among hardened warriors and the doubt that undermined his confidence, suggested by his blonde-haired blue-eyed companion. Once, he'd refused to acknowledge the dragon's words as the distraction of his own frightened mind – and all was almost lost.

Almost.

_Kilgarrah_! He pierced the shield of the ancient creature's opposition.

And gasped. And would have staggered, had he not already been seated.

His oldest kin was locked in vicious, deadly battle.

Kilgarrah's right wing was tattered, shredded. Merlin felt it as a burning lash upon the right side of his own body, and clenched his teeth to hold the contact, as the dragon roared fire and pivoted.

Grounded.

He wanted to shriek warning, demand explanation, but there were no words in this link. _Even in the waking dream, caught between times, I was connected to my lord…_

Men. Too many men. Small and mean and foreign-smelling. Cruel and bloody, fur and leather and sharp iron.

They roared the heat of their rage at being shot from the sky – ambushed – surrounded –

Weakening. They were losing blood from twenty minor wounds, inflicted as they couldn't defend themself on all sides at once. Couldn't take to the air, where speed was a shield and their own attack could succeed. They were losing blood internally, too. Bones broken, splintered, when they'd fallen from the sky.

_Fight_, he told himself in a miserable scared whisper. In a stern acceptance of the unavoidable. _Oh, fight, my friend. You can_ –

They spun to slash at half a dozen approaching warriors – a band of scouts, _oh, Aithusa_ – and the ferocity of the motion –

aided the upward thrust

of the spear

in the hands… of a man… he hadn't seen.

On the right side. Of his chest. Where a dragon's heart throbbed its great steady eternal numbered beats.

Time stopped.

The men retreated. From the field of rock crushed in a bloody welter. From a calm and civilized council table.

_Kilgarrah_.

The great creature sank helplessly to the ground, blood gouting from the last wound.

_Emrys. My lord. It has been a privilege to know you, young warlock. The story we have been a part of will live long in the lives of men. _

_ No, I can heal you!_

_ Merlin, you are not even here._ A kinsman's gentle and sympathetic amusement. _A long life I've had, and many wonders I've seen – and yourself not the least of them. It is an honor to die at Camlann also._

Merlin's entire being – magic's soul – screamed. And screamed.

The passing of the dragon left him frozen. Charred. Bereft and broken. Such a great grief he'd never felt.

He gasped to survive the terrible pain of this loss. To contain the sobs that would rip his chest open. Here in the dark that wasn't death, but merely the back of his eyelids as he sat in the company of friends and family – of kin, also – gripping the arms of his chair hard enough to splinter the wood. He forced his eyes open.

No one moved. Or spoke. Or even breathed.

Because Merlin still held that moment of time. No one was even looking at him.

No one had even noticed.

And that was good.

Merlin gasped once more, holding that moment, because to let it go meant he let Kilgarrah go, and all the great dragon meant to his heritage. And moments would gather, each one passing forcing more distance, as he moved forward through time. And the red dragon's time was done.

He released time, again. To some petty quarrel between the lords over how much weight each wagon should carry.

As they marched their slow, inexorable way to the killing field where his king would end.

Merlin focused on holding himself very still, very quiet. Just, get past the meeting – an obscene waste of the time Kilgarrah no longer had.

He blocked Aithusa's reaction, verbal and emotional. Aithusa was a mature dragon, if he chose to light the coast or to retreat to Camlann or to come all the way to Merlin, sitting very still in this chair, this room, this palace… that was his choice. Merlin could not share this with him, now. Could not release the tightly-wrapped bundle of his own pain, could not accept a single particle of Aithusa's expressed grief. Not now. Not yet.

Just, wait for everyone's words to run out, like blood dripping from a mortal wound. Sooner or later, it would stop. Then Merlin would be free, also.

Though perhaps freedom, apart from death, was only an illusion. For someone like him.

**A/N: This was quite a lengthy piece of sustained tension, I wasn't sure where to break it… more coming, too. Sorry! I'll try to get one more chapter out early next week before I disappear for a month… **

***Quote from **_**The Swordsman's Oath**_** by Juliet McKenna. Some dialogue from ep.5.4 "Another's Sorrow" and ep.5.10 "The Kindness of Strangers". And, **_**Digolnes, asaelan, geinseglian, anlipe**_**, roughly translate into **_**secrecy, binding, sealing, 'the one'.**_

**On a completely unrelated note – and no I don't read/write crossovers – I find I quite like the idea of Merlin prefiguring the world of Harry Potter. That something he did was successful and lasting, if a whole culture of witches and wizards can flourish within ordinary society to this day… **


	9. Site and Sacrifice

**Chapter 9: Site and Sacrifice**

Arthur flinched, right in the middle of Tindr's list of the names of wagoneers who would be traveling with the army supply train.

Odd. But it seemed like someone in the room had just screamed. The stone walls reverberated with the echo.

No one else seemed to have noticed.

Merlin always noticed the strange things, however – Arthur turned his head for a quick private question – and froze, forgetting his words.

The sorcerer was white and hard as marble, his eyes like sunken coals, seeing everything and nothing in a moment, with a glitter that might have been unshed tears. Something was very, very wrong – and no one else noticed. Even Gwaine, slouched in the seat next to Merlin, hardly bothering to cover his yawn of boredom.

Arthur did the first thing that came to his mind – examine his friend for injury. Visually – Merlin's chest moved with a methodical breathing, though it might have been quicker and somehow more deliberate than normal. Arthur moved his hand casually to the arm of Merlin's chair – no one noticed that either, not even Merlin – to find the soft delicate pulse among the tension-hardened strands of tendon in his wrist. It was there – quickened also.

Then – he did not interrupt whatever internal struggle Merlin was having. Not even to ask after the report from the dragons their lord had promised only moments ago.

Alone, or with their closest friends, he might have spoken immediately to break Merlin's terrible concentration, to demand answers and offer aid – but here and now, he would help his sorcerer retain composure.

"First light," Arthur said into a gap in the discussion. "I appreciate the difficulties you've encountered obeying my orders for preparations, but our time is up. The army marches at daybreak – and any supply wagons that are not included in our protected train must follow with an armed guard provided for from your private accounts."

The lords and merchants gaped at him like a school of startled fish.

"Do not mistake me, it is no punishment," he added. "But now is a time to require sacrifice from all men – some of my warriors will pay with their lives, and you, my lords, who are not fighters, will have to pay in other ways."

He rose from his seat, followed quickly by most of the council members – those with the agility and presence of mind to react immediately. Though, not Merlin.

"You are dismissed," he said. "At first light we gather on the plain to the northwest of the lower town. And – my sincerest gratitude to you all for your efforts and contributions." He waited, though every second was excruciating, watching his councilors gather their writing supplies, turn to speak again to a neighbor, begin to leave the table, the room.

All the while exquisitely aware of Merlin at his side like a block of ice. Who still aroused no attention, not from Gwaine who turned the other way to speak to Percival, nor Guinevere at Arthur's other side, in quiet conversation with Morgana and Lord Lionel. Lucan had fallen asleep on her shoulder.

Merlin stood, and as Arthur turned to him expectantly, slipped past him so that their shoulders touched briefly, though they were facing in opposite directions.

"Kilgarrah's dead," he said tonelessly, not meeting Arthur's eyes, not reacting to his startled jerk. "At Camlann, by an advance party – he took them with him, when he died."

Arthur's jaw dropped. Half a dozen questions all got in each other's way – _what happened, how did it happen, how are_ you – and before they were untangled, the barrel-chested barbarian king shouldered between Merlin and Gwaine to demand Arthur's attention. And the hand he put out to arrest his friend's movement away fell on empty air.

"I am not a peaceful man by nature," Caerleon said belligerently. "And I do not intend changing, for you or any other man."

"My lord, can this wait," Arthur said impatiently, as Merlin drifted to the far edge of his vision.

"No, I think it cannot." Caerleon set his jaw, his eyes glittering at Arthur. "My land is barren and rocky – we scrape and chisel our existence without ease and ask for help from no one. While Camelot enjoys fertile fields and wide valleys and rich forestry – and gives so generously to the allies that come with open hand. I have envied Camelot, I have resisted you. For long. And now – now I find that if you march to guard all our lands with your own body and blood, I would stand beside you and fight as well. Damn me for a weak-minded fool, maybe."

Caerleon straightened, pulling back to study him – and bare a grin at the surprised expression Arthur quickly tried to smooth.

"And if you don't trust me with a sword in my hand and a third of my men at our backs – then we will have to sign your infernal paper. I will agree to remain on my side of the border – Stonedown is yours, Evorwick is mine – and if we both live out the year, I will agree to meet with you to further discuss matters of mutual concern."

Arthur tamped down any feelings of triumph or exultation or relief, receiving Caerleon's pledge with as much neutrality as possible. His hand was extended half a second after Caerleon's own.

"I will have the agreement so drawn up," he said. "Effective for the year. Contingent, as always, upon adherence to the terms."

"So I am free to go, once you have my signature," Careleon stated, and it was not a question, but an aggressive insistence, implying his position of control.

Arthur felt like a man about to take a blind step from what might prove to be a very great height – he would have to trust a freed Caerleon with the knowledge that Camelot was stripped of her troops – or level ground. He said, "Yes."

"I prefer to return to my castle, in that case, raise and organize my men," Caerleon said.

Arthur glanced around, caught Gwaine's eye, and issued a command with a jerk of his head; the knight stepped to join them, alert and attentive. "Sir Gwaine can see to any needs you have – a mount, supplies, a guard – as well as the details of your commitment to our expedition. I'll speak to Geoffrey about composing that document – if you'll excuse me."

Caerleon nodded and shifted his weight to face Gwaine as Arthur stepped away from them.

A quick glance through the room told him what he already suspected – Merlin was gone. Gwen remained seated – Lucan asleep in her lap, all long arms and legs – speaking to her father, but Morgana approached Arthur.

"Arthur, about giving the Saxon leaders a chance to speak –"

"Really, Morgana," he said firmly. "We will have time to think on this further, before we reach the White Mountains – not now." She opened her mouth to object, to argue – and he side-stepped her like an opponent in combat.

Geoffrey, luckily enough, was standing by the door attempting to extract himself from a conversation with a dissatisfied-looking Lord Tindr.

"Geoffrey, a word if you please," Arthur said, taking the librarian by the sleeve of his robe. "Excuse us, Lord Tindr."

"Thank you, sire," Geoffrey puffed, doing his best to keep pace with Arthur as he took them both out of the room – no sign of Merlin in either direction – and down the hall toward the library.

"You're welcome," Arthur said. "I have a task for you."

He explained the document he needed Geoffrey to draw up; the old man very respectfully did not show a great deal of surprise, instead posing a few questions of wording clarity.

"It shall be done," Geoffrey promised, as they reached the library. He turned to his desk, between the first two rows of shelves, as Arthur hurried to the doorway of the inner room.

Open shutters allowed for plenteous daylight, so it wasn't til Arthur was several paces into the room, searching for the lanky form of his sorcerer and friend, that he realized the room was deserted.

Arthur strode to the desk, the focal point of the room, to see if there was any hint of what Merlin had last been working on. If, as he supposed, Merlin had received the news of the dragon's death right there in that meeting – and no wonder, then, the odd stutter of time and the agonized cry he'd only caught an echo of – that didn't explain the sorcerer's preoccupation at the beginning of the meeting. Perhaps he'd learned something about the sorcerer who'd cursed the druids' magic-users?

Inkwell and quill-pens. A book that lay crookedly open – a list of words in another language, it looked like, used maybe for translation – a funny little wooden box with its lid open. And a scorch mark in the center of the desk. Arthur rubbed it experimentally – there was a thin film of ash as if a scrap of parchment had been burned.

No answers, here. He turned away; where else? Perhaps the physician's chamber, perhaps his own quarters – Merlin probably had his own packing to do.

No matter how hard Kilgarrah's death hit him.

Arthur himself was shocked and saddened, but the dragon's death didn't mean to him what it meant to Merlin. Kilgarrah was – had been – an acquaintance, to Arthur. To Merlin, family. And though Arthur himself had been taught and trained to lock his feelings away to focus on the action required in the moment, Merlin had always been far more expressive with his emotions.

He took the stairs to the physician's chambers two at a time and burst in - as he always had - without knocking, though the involuntary call of _Gaius_! no longer came to his lips.

No Merlin, but the room was not deserted.

Two people were present, rummaging through the cabinets and drying racks, and Arthur stiffened, opening his mouth to demand an explanation – as the noise of his entrance drew their startled attention – when he realized he recognized them.

The bald man with the deep-set eyes and the ring of tattoos round his neck. The plump woman with wavy silver-streaked hair and a perpetually wide-eyed expression of childish innocence.

"King Arthur," the man said, straightening to bow, as the woman dropped her eyes and a curtsy.

"I know you," he said, somewhat foolishly, trying to remember. Not from Camelot, but where, then? He'd been so many places and met so many people – he could hear the man say in his thick accent, _Emrys_…

"Yes, my lord," the man said. "I am Alator of Lionys, this is my companion Finna."

Lionys. Of course. The bastet curse Merlin had fought and lifted, with Arthur's help and Freya's.

"What brings you to Camelot?" he said. Not politely or with idle curiosity – he didn't have time for that – it was _something_, he knew. "You traveled with Lord Lionel?"

"Yes, sire," Alator said. "We accompanied him to serve as healers, to the army."

"Wonderful – and welcome," Artrhur said, beginning to turn away. "Oh – have either of you seen Merlin?"

They exchanged a glance.

"Not since last evening, my lord," Alator said neutrally, but Arthur was already alerted.

"Do you know what's bothering him, then?" Arthur pressed – and deliberately didn't mention the death of the great dragon. Perhaps Merlin would want to avoid bearing that news himself – but Arthur didn't exactly have permission to spread it around as common knowledge, either.

"Not precisely," Alator said calmly.

Arthur almost smiled. "Generally, then."

"Destiny."

"Oh, is that all?" Arthur couldn't help the exasperation. "You don't know where he is?"

"No, my lord," Alator said, and added, "We have his permission to carry from his stores here whatever we expect will be useful to us on the battlefield?"

"Yes, well…" Arthur sighed. "If you have his permission, carry on."

The woman, Finna, glanced wide-eyed at her companion, before dropping another curtsy as Arthur backed out the door.

He'd wager a gold piece against an iron nail that the crafty old druid knew almost exactly what had been bothering Merlin, before the meeting.

Arthur decided, that concerned him more. Grief over the death of a loved one was painful, but straightforward, and time would soothe that hurt. Especially since Kilgarrah had a magnificently long life-span, and had died honorably in battle. It was _their_ loss they'd mourn, not _his_.

Up the stairs, halfway down the hall. This door he knocked on, though he was the king and this his palace. Before remembering – she wouldn't be here, Marya had said they would be in the lower town with Gaius and Hunith. And if Merlin was here, Arthur didn't need to knock – and Merlin might not answer, if he was in a particularly solitary mood.

But before he could put his hand on the latch to visually check the set of chambers, the door opened and Freya stood to the side. A bit pale – her eyes red – did she know?

"Oh! sire," she said. "I'm sorry – he's not here."

Arthur vented an aggravated sigh. He had better things to be doing than chasing down an errant sorcerer… no. He cut the thought short. No, he didn't suppose anything was more important, at that moment.

"Do you know where he is?" She shook her head, and Arthur couldn't help adding, "Any idea where he might be?"

"No, he –" Her eyes glistened briefly before she lowered them, raising one hand to rest on her cheek in a self-comforting gesture. "I haven't… seen him, since yesterday. He didn't… come back here, last night."

Arthur stared at her. It had happened, in the past, and not terribly infrequently, that Merlin slept in the back room of the physician's chamber, when his work kept him til the small hours of the morning, or required an obscenely-early morning. Or, when he lost himself in a study or experiment of magic, in his inner room of the library. Even, a couple of times, on a cot in the infirmary, when a patient needed all-day, all-night care.

But. Merlin had just been gone for a month. And, now returned from two nights' camp in a ruined watchtower and a situation of physical danger. He knew he himself wouldn't accept any bribe to sleep apart from his wife, in similar circumstances.

"Do you suppose," he said slowly. "Perhaps – I know you still have that ware-stone? Could you call him? I think – well, we need to talk."

She was shaking her head before he finished. Slowly, as if considering more than once, but still reaching the same conclusion.

"I shouldn't," she whispered, dropped her hand to press negligently at the front of her waist. "I'm so sorry, but… there are reasons that I shouldn't – he'll think, an emergency… Arthur, if you really can't find him, and it's late and you need him, then I guess I will, but… I'm sorry?"

"There are a few more places I can check," he allowed. But didn't immediately leave. "Freya, do you know – did Alator and Finna have another reason to come here, besides helping out with medical work for the army?"

"They came to give something to Merlin," Freya said. Without any change of her worried expression – she'd already connected whatever the gift was, to her husband's absence. "And no, I didn't see it, I don't know what it is. Finna didn't either, it's been sealed for a long time."

Arthur made a thoughtful noise. Destiny. Sealed for a long time. And, something that became important after Arthur had sent to Lionys for support-troops for a battle against invaders.

It teased a memory. Before Gaius' retirement, before Merlin's appointment to the post of court physician, before Arthur's coronation… Before their overnight battle for Camelot, before their journey to Lionys to find a bride… After the death of another druid boy and the recovery of a unique crystal. Merlin had been just like he was this morning, subdued, thoughtful – _haunted_.

Arthur thought he might know another place to look.

But that memory prompted another recollection.

"I think you should know," he said, to the last dragonlord's wife. "Kilgarrah died this morning." She gasped, spreading the fingers of her hand over her waist, as her other hand covered her heart. "In battle, and I take it he was victorious against his attackers, but… you should know, I think. Maybe he'd want to tell you himself, but…"

"Maybe it's better if he doesn't have to," she finished. Tears dripped down her face from brimming dark eyes. "What – what time, do you know?"

"Not exactly – maybe an hour ago?"

She nodded absently, and he shifted to indicate his inclination to take his leave. "I hope you find him," she said.

He gave her a smile. "If I do, I'll order him home."

He was rewarded with a pale smile in return. Because both of them knew how well Merlin responded to Arthur's _orders_.

"Thank you," she whispered, and he nodded before turning on his heel.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was cold where Merlin was, deep within the citadel, dark and silent.

That was good, that was what he needed, as he finally allowed himself to feel. In order to control his emotions again, and carry on. To close the gaping hole in his chest, so he could function properly again. The blue and white of his magelight swirled chaotically.

Shock, with maybe some denial – or an inability to force his heart to accept what his head knew was true. Or, for his head to realize the truth his heart had experienced?

Anger. He was less inclined, now, to treat with the Saxons, than to forge his own way into the White Mountains, find them and destroy them all. Which thought – desire? instinct? – ought to frighten him, and maybe it would, when the anger drained away.

And grief. A selfish feeling, maybe – Kilgarrah's life had been full and long, and he had died as he would have wished. Not slowly sickening, losing one ability after another… And, though he'd never been one for chatting or reminiscing, the opportunity had always been there for Merlin to ask a question about his grandfather specifically, or about the lives and habits and teachings of the other older dragonlords Kilgarrah had known in his life. Now, that opportunity was gone.

But that reminded him. Of another responsibility he'd avoided – rather wished to keep avoiding.

_Aithusa_.

Immediately, _Merlin_. And an almost overwhelming flood of emotion from the white dragon – Merlin clutched at the charm pendant from the cord around his neck, hunching over on the low seat he'd chosen, on the closed lid of a small chest.

There was the anger and grief he felt, but differently. An implacable and unforgiving _fury_, the pain of loss more sharply poignant than Merlin's – perhaps something akin to what Merlin might have felt had he known his father. As teacher, as the penultimate dragonlord, they two unique and rare, sharing an irreplaceable kinship now lost forever.

Merlin had friends, and family, human comfort. Aithusa was now the last dragon.

There was another emotion Merlin hadn't felt. A fierce pride, that his brother-dragon had fought, and won, in death.

But, the shock wasn't there.

_I saw it_, Aithusa added. _You saw it, too?  
He tried to block me, but_ – a twinge of guilt for assailing the old dragon's defenses, also, though he was kin and couldn't have known – _yes. I saw. What – what happened?_

_ Twenty Saxons_. Deep chagrin. _I did not miss them from the main body – it is likely they hid their departure under cover of night. They used longbows and spears, and shielded themselves from his flame._

_ Scouts? _he said, finding a sort of solace in focusing on details. _Or did they know of him, and seek him out?_

_ It is possible that, having seen me, the Saxons traveled prepared and expectant_.

Or perhaps, that magic-user who had cursed Iseldir's clan had warned the Saxons of the existence of two dragons. They met Kilgarrah at Camlann, but they could easily have been making for Dinas Emrys.

_I am sorry, my friend_, Aithusa added. _He did not mean for you to see. Of course you would know when he died, you would feel it… He asked me to explain, when it was over._

_ What do you mean_… Merlin shivered violently, feeling ill. _He knew?_

_ He knew. He had foreseen his death at Saxon hands, and at a hill that was not his own._

_ So when I asked him to go to Camlann, to watch and guard…_ The blue and white wisps inside the orb of his magelight seemed to twist and tighten.

_ He knew what would happen, and he went anyway._

"It was my fault," Merlin whispered miserably.

_Merlin, you are not to blame. He gave his life willingly – as I will do, as we all will do, when it is required – for Albion. For Camelot, for the once and future king. For peace and for you._

_ Aithusa_… Merlin found it hard to breathe, and concentrated. _Where are you now?_

_ I fly to Camlann. My kin must not simply lie where he has fallen._

_ What will you do?_

_His flesh will be consumed in dragonfire, and I will take his bones to Dinas Emrys._

_ Shall I –_

_ No, Merlin._ It wasn't often he felt sympathy from one of the dragons – they understood, respected and cared for, each other – but they simply didn't feel the way humans did. _You remain at the king's side, your place and your duty, as the time of battle nears._

_ After, Aithusa… if you would, if you can, please clear Camlann – then perhaps watch at Mount Badon? To see that none pass you?_

_ You avoid Camlann._ It was not a question, and there was no surprise, either.

Oh, gods, yes. He gasped a single painful sob. _As long as possible._

_ Torr Badon it is, then._

A familiar footfall startled Merlin, drawing his attention from the mental back to the physical. But he didn't believe what his ears claimed as truth, until the other stepped into sight.

That Arthur would seek him, today of all days, and that he would find him… No. He wasn't ready.

The blue magelight winked out.

"Merlin!" Arthur said into the absolute darkness of the citadel vaults. His voice that blend of concern and exasperation that he seemed to use for Merlin alone, and which he normally loved to provoke. And might, soon, never hear again. "I've already seen you, so if this is you trying to hide from me – it's rubbish."

"No," Merlin answered, fighting to keep his voice even. "This is me saying, leave me the hell alone."

Shuffle. Clatter. Curse.

"Are you going to bring your light back, or are you going to let me break my toes trying to find you?" Arthur demanded.

Merlin considered pretending that he'd transported himself elsewhere, instantly, magically – if he didn't respond, would Arthur simply turn around and leave, assuming he'd gone, or stumble around in the dark for a while? Or maybe Merlin really should just _shift_…

The tentative footsteps came closer, and he did nothing.

Then an outstretched hand collided with Merlin's face, and he jerked back – even as both of Arthur's hands patted him rather roughly, rather longer than absolutely necessary.

"Oh, there you are," Arthur said, a lopsided grin in his voice. "Well? Make yourself useful." Merlin snorted, recognizing what his friend had told him long ago, just before Arthur had seen the blue magelight for the first time. "Light it up."

Merlin concentrated, and a torch at the far end of the vault, at the base of the stair, flared into life. "There," he told Arthur. "Now you can see your way out."

"Rather thought I'd find you gazing into a crystal," Arthur remarked dryly.

Merlin meant to laugh. Only, it stuck in his throat – _hells, anything but another vision_ – and hurt, and before he knew it, his body had betrayed him with half a dozen sobs before he reclaimed control.

Arthur dropped to the lid of the small chest beside Merlin, facing a quarter-turn to the left; he felt the weight of Arthur's arm across and up his back as he bowed over his bent knees, the king's hand lightly encircling the base of his neck, steadying him with wordless comfort.

"I'm very sorry about Kilgarrah," Arthur said. "I know that there's – really nothing anyone can say, but – you're not alone, Merlin. You don't have to handle this alone."

He ducked his head, swallowing against a thick pain that lodged in his throat.

"But it's not just Kilgarrah, is it," Arthur said – and Merlin's head shot up again, wishing he could see more of his king's expression than a dim profile. Except, that would mean Arthur could see him more clearly, too – and now of all times for his king to be perceptive.

"What do you mean," he said.

"Something Alator brought you." Arthur turned his head to look at him, torchlight glinted in his eyes from across the room. "Whatever it was, you don't have to handle that alone, either."

"Yes I do," he said immediately.

"Don't be an idiot," Arthur told him, fondly complacent.

And Merlin's temper sparked. "I _have_ lost Kilgarrah, I _might_ lose Freya, I _will_ lose _you_ –" He bit his tongue hard.  
Arthur didn't say anything. He pushed himself up and strode the length of the vault toward the stairway up to light and company and industry.

Merlin closed his eyes and pressed his fingers over them – _that's done it, he's gone _– but the flicker and glow of the torchlight grew minimally against the back of his eyelids. Arthur's footsteps approached again, and he heard the faint scrape of torch into wall-bracket. He opened his eyes again to watch Arthur lower himself to sit on the stone floor, leaning against the wall, wrists draped comfortably over his raised, bent knees. And now they could see each other quite well, in the golden circle of torchlight.

"Okay," the king said conversationally. "Explain that."

When he was young, Merlin might have tried to deny, to lie. Now he said, "No, Arthur. You don't want to know, and I won't put the burden on you, also."

"Perhaps you think," Arthur said, "that I don't know what it is to be privy to information that's dangerous or vital – or both – and have to choose how much to tell, the queen, my closest knights, the council, all the people…"

"You didn't say me," Merlin pointed out.

Arthur's lips quirked under his short golden beard. "That's because you know everything I do, anyway."

"And so much more." The verbal jousting was familiar, comfortable, but Merlin sighed, finding his heart wasn't in it, even if his instinct was.

Arthur let the comment pass without countering it. "You think I don't know what it feels like to carry the weight of responsibility?" he went on quietly. "Once, very long ago – when you were still shorter than me, in fact – you invited me to call you an idiot, when you were being one. And I reminded you that a king has councilors for a reason. I have men I trust with sensitive information, that the best course can be chosen based upon the best advice. And no matter what you – or Gwaine or Tristan – might say in jest, I don't flatter myself that my opinions or ideas are the wisest." Merlin let the chance to make a rude noise pass by in silence, and Arthur added, with a deliberate hint of arrogance, "At least, not _every_ time."

His mouth wanted to smile. His heart felt like that would be a betrayal of his oldest kin, somehow.

"It has to do with Camlann, doesn't it," Arthur said.

He wanted to tell, to share – burden, responsibility, decision. But he feared that it was an entirely selfish urge, and he ought to protect Arthur from the knowledge of his fate. The very nature of a secret meant you couldn't ask the person, _do you want to know, or not._

Another thought hit Merlin crosswise. Would _he_ want to know such things about _his_ fate?

"Even if you think you can't talk about this, you don't have to be alone," Arthur remarked, after a moment more of Merlin's continued silence. "I told Freya about Kilgarrah. Merlin… she's worried about you."

Merlin heard his own voice say to his wife, _Were you going to tell me?_ Another secret, another burden. Though he worried now for her, he imagined, what it would feel like if she hadn't told him. If something happened and he found out when it was too late. Or, if he never found out at all.

He had a right to know.

Arthur had a right to know.

"It was a prophecy," Merlin said, and it felt like, when he and Aithusa were gliding on the high air currents, and the dragon would take an abrupt and unexpected plunge.

Arthur snorted irreverently. "Another one of those?" he said.

"Do you want to know it?" Merlin asked seriously.

The king dropped his head a few degrees, studying his hands which hung motionless over his knees. "If it concerns Camlann, it's probably important," he said. "You asked me, was there somewhere else we could fight. Morgana didn't know the exact location she saw, and your druid friend didn't say, specifically. So… there's a reason we ought to avoid Camlann?"

Merlin had to wait a moment to be sure the word would come out evenly. "Yes."

"Merlin, I…" Arthur raised on hand to cover his eyes, to press at his temples, then spoke slowly, "To make the best decision, for us, for our men, I think I… need to know. What that reason is."

"Shall I tell you the prophecy?" Merlin said, and Arthur waved a get-on-with-it command. " '_Let loose the hounds of war. And let the dread fire of the last priestess rain down from angry skies. For brother will slaughter brother, for friend will murder friend, as the great horn sounds a cold dawn at Camlann. The prophets do not lie. There Arthur will meet his end upon that mighty plain_.' "

At the mention of his name, Arthur dropped his hand to stare at Merlin. "That's word for word?" he said incredulously, then turned his head a degree. "Are you sure you've translated it properly?"

Merlin mimed throwing something at his friend's head – a nice hard metallic goblet would be both noisy and satisfying – "Yes!"

Arthur put up both hands palms-out in a momentary protest of Merlin's explosion of temper. After a moment, he said, "So I'm to die at Camlann, is it?"

"You can say that so calmly," Merlin said bitterly.

"Well," Arthur said matter-of-factly, "if it's the best way to save our people, I'll do it."

_ He knew what would happen, and he went anyway._

"You're our commander, our king," Merlin said in a low voice. "If they knew this, every single warrior would say, let's fight elsewhere, willing to take a higher risk to keep you safe. Arthur. You _are_ worth fifty men." More.

Arthur shifted forward, not sitting now but kneeling – somehow a less passive position. "Are you going to choose the fifty men?" he said intently. "Because I won't."

Merlin leaned forward as well. "Then I will continue on to Badon and personally see to it that no Saxons get to Camlann." He deliberately ignored the fact that the Saxons weren't mentioned in the prophecy; Arthur at Camlann could die in any number of ways, he supposed, accidentally, even. And the small voice that whispered, _and if that gets you killed, leaving Arthur vulnerable, and that's what gets him killed?_

Arthur narrowed his eyes at Merlin. Clearly hating the idea. And clearly, realizing he could not stop Merlin from acting on it.

Then the sky-blue gaze moved sideways fractionally. "This time," the king said.

"What?"

"If a battle at Badon Hill means no Saxons get to Camlann… this time." Arthur stroked his bearded jaw thoughtfully, then pointed at Merlin. "Your prophecy doesn't say _when_, does it. Only where. And evidently the High Priestess is supposed to be there? That means, it doesn't have to be _this_ battle, does it?"

"I… no," Merlin said, drawing the word out to indicate his uncertainty.

"I meant what I said before, about the dangers of lengthening our supply line," Arthur said. "But if you're determined to be stupid about fighting at Badon instead of Camlann, I guess we can start there. Depending, of course, on the movement of Saxon troops, and the actual ground, once we lay eyes on it. And, I will not throw lives away if retreat becomes the best option, even if it's retreat to Camlann."

"So you'd – you'd agree to a stand at Mount Badon, instead?" Merlin said.

"Yes," Arthur decided. "Unless, I hear from someone else a very good reason why that would mean an unnecessary waste of my men's lives." He pushed himself to his feet and held out a hand to Merlin in clear invitation.

"I think," Merlin said, "it would be best not to tell anyone else. About the reason we're going further than Camlann."

"What, that my sorcerer is a suicidal idiot intent on sacrificing his own life to protect mine?" Arthur said. "Too late, Merlin – that's common knowledge by now."

"No." Merlin grimaced at him in exasperation, and took Arthur's hand, allowing the king to draw him upright. "About the prophecy at all."

"Yeah, I agree with that," Arthur told him. He retrieved the torch from the wall, then paused and turned back to Merlin. "You sure you don't want to have a look in the crystal, while we're down here?"

"Oh, hells, no," Merlin said fervently, crowding him toward the stair. "Let's get out of here."

**A/N: Okay, folks, I'm sorry but this is it for a month. I'll be back after May 15, and then the updates should be regular, every-other-day again. Depending on how much I get scribbled in rough draft form while I'm away from home. But hopefully I've left things on an evener keel than last chapter?**

**And, NightsAnger – "He knew what would happen, and he went anyway" – thanks for inspiring the concept of Kilgarrah knowing his own death, and sacrificing himself. It feeds right into the idea of Arthur being willing to do the same, doesn't it?**


	10. The Last Days Together

**Chapter 10: The Last Days Together**

"Eat up, now, love, while it's hot."

Freya set the last bowl of stew down on the table in front of her daughter, before she seated herself next to Hunith, and where she could see Gaius in his chair at the fireplace.

Momentarily she brushed a dark curl back from Marya's face as the little girl began to eat, and marveled, as she often did, at the miracle of her little daughter. Hers, and Merlin's.

So lively and inquisitive, awake, Freya sometimes found it hard to keep up with the steady stream of questions and observations and her need to investigate the world around her – in the physician's chamber, as in Merlin's library and Hunith's garden, fairly constant supervision was needed, for safety's sake.

And times like now, focused on her meal, so calm and quiet.

She toyed with her own spoon – hungry, but more focused on absorbing the serenity of the room and her family. It had been a busy day, gathering and packing all of the supplies they'd need, medically serving an army on the march… and then at war. She'd packed Merlin's things, too.

"One piece at a time," Hunith told Marya, pulling the platter of bread back from Marya's impatient fingers until her granddaughter nodded agreement. Freya took the dish as Hunith passed it to her, but set it down untouched.

Whatever Alator and Finna had brought for him, aside from the talk of _help through the dark days to come_, it was not good news to Merlin. And then for the king to be worried enough in the middle of commanding an expeditionary force leaving on the morrow, to come looking for Merlin himself… and then the news of Kilgarrah.

"How come we're not waiting for Father, to eat?" Marya said, kicking her heels against the bench she was seated on.

"We talked about this, remember?" Freya answered, avoiding Hunith's glance. "He's very busy helping the king with the army."

"Where _is_ he though?"

This time, Freya met her mother-in-law's gaze, worried-sympathetic, and sighed, deciding to answer honestly. "I don't know, exactly."

"What happened?" Those blue eyes, so like Merlin's, were round and deep; already Marya had an uncanny knack for asking just the right question, just the right way.

Freya decided to give the only answer she was sure of, and probably the simplest of all possible explanations for Merlin's continued absence. "Kilgarrah died, honey, just this morning."

Hunith already knew this, Freya had told her as soon as she and Marya had arrived; she wasn't sure why the older woman's eyes were so attentive, suddenly – until she realized she'd dropped her hand to her as-yet flat abdomen.

"Is that why," Hunith said.

Halfway through the garden, that morning, Freya had been faced with a sudden choice – sit down or fall down. A terrible twist in her stomach and an inexplicable urge to cry. Hunith had probably guessed her condition then, though the older woman had only ushered her inside for a cup of cool water and a quarter-hour's rest, before urging her home and promising to finish the gardening chores on her own.

Freya only shrugged – so many questions, and no solid answers. Although, she and the babe both seemed fine, now.

Marya, across the supper table, kicked her heels and blinked thoughtfully at the news. Freya wondered now, whether she ought to have asked if their daughter had experienced any odd sensation or illness or emotion, at the time. What would it mean if she had? What would it mean if she hadn't?

"Father is very sad, then, isn't he?" Marya said only.

"Yes, honey, and he might have to be sad for a while –"

"He tries to take care of everybody, doesn't he?" Marya interrupted. "He's a physician, and a sorcerer, and he's supposed to take care of everybody, only… I don't think that's possible, Mama, even for Father. He shouldn't be sad if there wasn't anything he could do."

"Honey," Freya tried gently to explain, "he's going to be sad because he'll miss Kilgarrah."

Marya's eyes widened in childish disbelief. "_Really_?"

Freya sighed, and smiled, as Hunith hid her own expression behind her hand. "One day you'll understand."

"It's 'cause he's a dragonlord, and now he only has one dragon to be lord to?" Marya asked.

"That's…" Freya stared at her little daughter; Hunith's amusement had vanished. "That's quite close, actually."

And the next moment Marya was off onto, "Did you have to put cabbage in the soup, Mama? I don't like cabbage."

Freya smiled and didn't answer, as Marya turned to her grandmother and began to chatter about all the foods she didn't like, and those she did.

She loved her little daughter, so much. No matter what happened in the days to come, she was content, even happy, making this memory. Knowing part of her, part of Merlin, would grow to be an amazing young woman with a special destiny of her own.

Halfway through the meal, Hunith rose to bring Gaius another piece of bread, in his comfortable chair by the hearth, and Freya leaned over to see how much was left in Marya's bowl, and encourage her to finish.

The door opened, and they all – even Gaius – looked up to see Merlin slip inside, and close it behind him.

In the first moment when no one reacted, Freya saw the grief that still lay on him, but it was calm, and the other elements of his personality shone steadfast – _loyalty_ and _determination_ and _magic_.

"Father!" Marya called, kicking one leg over the bench, before Freya recalled her.

"Supper first, Marya."

Hunith was at the door already, reaching up to embrace her tall son and whisper in his ear. Freya remembered that Hunith had known three generations of dragonlords, now, though she wouldn't have realized that before the battle of Dinas Emrys. Merlin put his arms around his mother and listened, and responded quietly, and allowed her to turn his face to kiss his cheek.

His eyes found Freya's, and though neither of them smiled, something in his expression eased, and she found comfort.

"Sit," Hunith said more clearly, releasing him. "I'll bring you a hot bowl." She turned to the kettle on the hearth, and Merlin came to the table.

"So the great dragon is gone," Gaius remarked clearly from his chair.

Merlin looked up as he seated himself at the head of the table, met the old man's gaze, and nodded. "Yes, Kilgarrah's dead."

Freya reached to take his hand, and he squeezed back gently.

"Father, I'm going to miss him, too," Marya piped up, declaring a determination for the future rather than stating an established fact.

Merlin leaned to put his other hand on her head, a rather melancholy smile on his lips beneath the dark beard Freya was still getting used to. Hunith set the bowl of stew before him on the table, resting her hand on his shoulder over the sleeveless calf-length jacket he wore. As he began to eat, his hand still in Freya's, Gaius spoke again.

"The red dragon is gone," the old man said. "What does this mean?"

"It means," Merlin stated, rather shortly, between bites, "that the white dragon will go to war."

"And is Albion united?" Gaius asked, oddly intent.

Merlin paused, but barely. "It is," he said, in a voice that made Marya kneel on the bench to peer more closely at his face.

"Good then that's settled," Gaius said comfortably. He handed his bowl to Hunith's waiting hand, as Freya coaxed Marya to settle properly on the bench, and Merlin scraped the last of his dinner from his bowl.

"Bed time, young lady," Freya decided.

"Oh, may I go with Father?" Marya pleaded, holding out her arms to him.

He stood and lifted her, but set her feet on the bench by the table, so that her head was only a few inches lower than his.

"I've got a present for you," he told her, reaching in his pocket.

"Another one?" she said, hopping once and balancing herself on Merlin's shoulder as the bench wobbled under her feet. "Mama put the hawk-button on my new cloak already."

Merlin held out a blue ribbon threaded through a round wooden charm, a delicately-carved flat disc depicting a druid's knot. Marya took it carefully between her fingertips.

"Father, this looks like –" she began uncertainly.

"It is," he answered. "It's shielding magic. A charm of protection, to keep you safe while I'm gone." She released it, and he tied it around her neck, barely finishing before she threw her arms around his.

For a brief moment, his face twisted, and Freya's heart echoed it. But Merlin only wrapped his arms around his daughter, and caught her weight as she jumped up against his chest, turning toward the house's second room, portioned into sleeping arrangements by folding screens.

Hunith met them at the doorway, putting her arms around her son and his daughter, kissing first one, then the other.

Freya stood to help her mother-in-law clear the rest of the dishes from the table and wash and clean up. Gaius began snoring, by the fire, and when Hunith joined him to pick up her sewing, Merlin returned. Freya went to him immediately, but instead of embracing her, he took her hand and led her to his chair at the head of the table.

Seating himself again, he drew her down into his lap, her knees sideways off his – and then wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in the front of her shoulder. She gripped him as well, feeling the tension in his body, the struggle he had with himself, simply to breathe evenly. She ran her fingers through his hair, thick and silky and she loved it, soothing him and comforting him and loving him with that simple touch.

"Are you all right?" she said in a low voice.

"Not really," he responded, "but I have to be. When one warrior falls, the battle doesn't stop to allow his fellows to mourn. It'll have to wait."

He wasn't a knight, he was a physician. But yes, also a fighter. She had seen that before, though not for a very long time, how the divergent uses of his magic sometimes troubled him.

"I'm very sorry about Kilgarrah," she said.

He exhaled against her and sat back, her hands clasped loosely around the back of his neck, his fingers threaded together around her hip, his gaze past her on the older couple at the fire.

"For… seven years, Gaius was my mentor," he said, very softly. "He taught me so much about healing and magic and… ethics." She understood, but he went on, not needing to explain, but simply to express. "Seventeen years, Kilgarrah has been… almost the same thing. If I had questions, I went to him and he had answers." Merlin's eyes shifted to her, and his lips quirked in the way that always had her thinking about kissing. "Not very clear ones, all the time – hardly ever – but. Now it feels like –"

"You're alone?" she finished for him, and allowed her voice to take on a gentle chiding tone. "You know that's not true. Maybe your friends don't have the answers Kilgarrah did, but they'll help you find them, you know."

He hummed and tightened his arms around her waist. "It was a prophecy," he said, and she leaned back a little to give him an uncomprehending look. "That Alator brought. A centuries-old Catha prophecy."

"About this battle?" she said.

He shifted in the chair, and freed one hand to rub his forehead. "No – maybe – I don't know. It's about _a_ battle, at a certain place… where Arthur will die."

"Oh…" she said, and her heart was in that drawn-out word. Now she understood what had kept him all night, that night.

"It only says where, not when," he continued, "so I kind of hope that we can avoid the where, but…"

"Merlin," she said. "What is prophecy for?"

He dropped his hand and looked at her. "What?" he said.

"The Catha. Centuries ago, when they wrote the prophecy." Finna had said it had been sealed for a long time. "What made them decide to save it, to make sure the information got to you?"

"Well, a warning –"

"When Morgana has dreams," Freya said, not waiting for him to finish. "She tells Arthur – and you – whatever it's about, right? It's not to prevent it happening, though, is it?"

"Well, Morgana's dreams," Merlin said, "don't often come to the conclusion implied, even if the images she sees actually take place."

"Why should this be different?" Freya said.

"Because it's – the conclusion isn't implied, it's stated. Here Arthur will meet his end."

"But the prophecy," she said gently, "isn't given to you to prevent. Maybe it's a warning, maybe you have to choose and fight and so on, even knowing what might happen – and then the conclusion might turn out differently than you expect, looking toward it in the future, rather than back on it in the past. Do you see what I mean? If you can't actually prevent it happening, whenever it's supposed to happen, however it's supposed to happen, maybe it's…" She hesitated. It felt insensitive to discuss Arthur's death philosophically when Merlin was trying to hold back the hurt of Kilgarrah's death.

"What?" he said, intently.

"To give you – and him, maybe – a chance to come to terms with it? To make peace with an inevitability before it happens? I mean, every time you two – or any knight – rides out, the wives have to do this. Face the fact that you might not come back. And accept there's nothing we can do about it, but be strong when the time comes, for the children. And when you ride back we sigh in relief - but we know, if not this time, perhaps next time…"

His expression was such an endearing mixture of chagrin and sympathy that she pulled his head toward her and kissed the frown.

"Have you ever really done that?" she said. "You're so determined, every time, that you're going to save Arthur or die trying. But perhaps his fate – and yours – is that he'll die first. You can't preserve his life forever, Merlin, can you." A speculative look came into his eyes and she gave him a little shake. "Stop that. I just mean, maybe the prophecy was meant for you and not him, for that reason. Not for you to try to stop it, but for you to accept it as eventual, so… so it won't be a terrible shock, when it does?"

He sighed, and pulled her close again. "How? How am I supposed to accept that? I know that's he's basically succeeded in uniting Albion, but he's so young, yet, Freya, Lucan is so young yet. Camelot still needs him…"

"You still need him," she said into his hair, and he nodded, his nose bumping her breastbone. "It's not easy," she whispered, thinking of how she had to make her heart let go every time she bid him farewell.

And because of the – unlimited? – supply of magic at his command, she knew he felt like, every time, he should be able to do something. To prevent a death, to fix the tragedy, to accomplish the ideal. It was something she loved about him, that optimism and determination, but it was often a cause of heartache for him that she wished she could prevent, his private burden of responsibility he shouldered alongside his power.

"Merlin, I –" She gave herself a wry smile; she'd just finished lecturing him on the feelings of those left behind when the fighters departed. "I want to ask you… I want to come with the army, when you ride out in the morning."

He went perfectly still; he didn't draw back or look at her face.

"Hunith said Marya could stay here."

She looked sideways and caught her mother-in-law's glance as she bit off her thread and shook out the fabric of the garment; unable to hear what they said, Hunith surely could still guess at the gravity of the conversation between her son and daughter-in-law. The look she gave Freya was compassionate and supportive. From the woman who used to hold him and pillow his head on her shoulder when he was a small boy, to the one who did the same, now that he was a grown man.

"I've packed your things, and mine. There will be more need for me in Stawell than Camelot. And I'll be with Finna, she can take care of me in regards to – you know…" He twitched and she clutched him, unwilling to see his expression until she'd finished, whether he was angry or disappointed or what. "But I'm not that far along, I won't even start showing, not really, for maybe two months yet, there's hardly any risk of any accident I have harming… and, Morgana's going, and she's nearly seven months, now."

"Stawell is Morgana's home," Merlin reminded her softly. He shifted, laying the side of his face – his ear – more closely against her chest.

She waited, feeling her heart beat, then ventured, "You didn't say no."

He drew back again, then, but his eyes weren't on her face; he lifted his hand to trace the faint line of the cord of the ware-stone she wore around her neck under the fabric of her dress. It was long enough that the stone didn't show through the curve of her bodice; she thought only he knew she wore it constantly. Maybe Marya or Hunith did too, possibly Enid.

"I can't make you promise to use this while we're gone, can I?" he said.

She sighed. "Merlin… When you're gone, I have no way of knowing if at any given moment you're fleeing wounded for your life, and his, or concentrating on delicate and dangerous magic, or what. The last time I called you when you had gone to fight with Arthur, it very nearly killed you."

"It wasn't that bad," he protested.

"No? Tell me Aithusa didn't fix some serious damage in your back, breathing through that broken window in the throne room," she said. "Tell me Gaius was wrong about you bringing the three of us – and an evil undead knight you didn't mean to bring and didn't know you were bringing – from the cave, and what that magic took out of you."

"It wasn't that bad," he repeated, pretending grumpiness.

"If I can't know, what sort of situation you're in, I can't make you choose, between him and me," she finished softly. "It isn't fair."

"Freya… if something happened to you, and I found out that at that moment we were sitting by the fire making jokes, do you know what it would do to me?" he said, and the depth of his earnest blue eyes gave her a little involuntary shiver. "If I say yes, and keep you with me as long as possible, let you stay a day's distance rather than three or four, will you please give that choice back to me? That was ten years ago, I do believe that strength of magic as well as judgment has improved?" She smiled at the slight teasing. "Please trust me."

Well. If her resistance to the possibility of presenting him with a simultaneous emergency seemed to him a lack of trust, she was going to have to change her mind herself. Relinquish her own small attempt to control fate and destiny, perhaps.

"I do trust you," she said, touching her forehead to his and closing her eyes, breathing his breath, smelling the faint lingering spice of the stew. "Then… yes."

"In that case," he said softly, "we should say goodbye to my mother and Gaius, and return to the citadel to get some sleep. First light comes quickly."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen smoothed down the fabric of the long purple tunic, sleeveless and fur-lined, and turned in front of the mirror, glad to see that these garments still fit, after a decade of years and three children. A bit snug through the waist, but not uncomfortable or unsightly. It had been quite a long time since she'd had occasion to wear such clothes, and there simply wasn't time for new ones.

She heard the door of the royal bedchamber open, and watched in the mirror as Arthur entered, then closed the door behind him. He leaned against the thick iron-bound oak panels for a moment, his expression one of weary preoccupation.

"Did you have any trouble?" Gwen asked. It had taken him a bit longer than usual, this evening, with the children's bedtime routines.

He didn't look at her as he answered. "Lucan wanted to come with us; he's full of talk about swords and fighting. Brian heard from someone that the great dragon died, and he was worried about that. Bethan doesn't want to be parted from her little cousin Nenna, even if it means having Marya to herself again." He sighed and Gwen chuckled, turning around to face him.

"They are growing up fast – but not too fast," she said.

He hummed absently, switching his gaze to her, and she watched him realize what she was wearing. "What are you doing?"

She smiled. "I'm coming with you."

"The battlefield is no place for a queen," he protested immediately.

"I have no intention of joining you there, I can assure you," she answered archly.

He crossed to her, taking her in his arms and nuzzling into her hair and the fur of the collar, his breath forming a pocket of heat against the side of her neck. "I remember when I first saw you wearing this," he said. "When we left Lionys. And I'd only known you for four days."

"Five," she corrected. "Depending on how you count it."

His lips moved slowly on the side of her neck, to the lobe of her ear. She blinked languidly, smiling in spite of their situation, and tipped her head as encouragement. He shifted his body slightly, still kissing her, to bring his hands to the top toggle closing the tunic at the fur-lined collar.

"Tell me," she said, holding his upper arms and allowing his intentions, "did you think of doing this at all, way back then?"

"On our journey from Lionys?" he said against her ear, dragging the backs of his knuckles deliberately but gently down her body to loose the next toggle. "Before we were betrothed?"

She murmured affirmation.

"Guinevere," he growled, and a little thrill shot up her spine, as it often did when he said her name like that. "Not a fair question." He retreated to focus his attention on unfastening her tunic down her stomach. "If I said yes, you would be shocked and offended that my imagination would take such liberties with a lady's honor. And if I said no –" She leaned back against his grip on her tunic, now down past the waist to the flare of the skirt at her hips, and he tugged her back to him. "You'd put your hands on your hips and demand to know why not, did I find you unappealing to a man's senses."

"You didn't answer the question," she pointed out, but couldn't hold back her smile.

He abandoned the toggles to slip his hands between the fur lining and the thin white shirt she wore beneath the tunic, embroidered with large cream-yellow flowers. Pushing the heavier tunic from her shoulders to pool around her feet.

"I'm going to need that tomorrow," she informed him, a bit breathlessly.

"Well, it's already laying out, then." His grin began more than a bit diabolical beneath the beard, but softened perceptibly. "Guinevere, you're lovely to me no matter what you wear. I find you utterly charming in your nightdress and messy braid and bare feet, and irresistibly gorgeous in a gown of satin or silk, your hair all in curls or flowers." He threaded one hand into her hair at the back of her neck, and with the other at her hip, drew their bodies together to kiss her lips in light quick movements. "I couldn't take my eyes off you, this morning."

She expressed disbelief and reservation in a single sound, reminded of something else she wanted to ask him.

"You couldn't take your eyes off Merlin, in the meeting," she said, and Arthur pulled back again with a sigh. "Is he all right?"

"I don't know." He released her, rubbed his forehead down to the bridge of his nose, then looked into her eyes for a long searching moment before moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Is it more than just Kilgarrah?" she guessed, following. She stepped between his knees, and he hung his arms around her hips in a loose embrace, laying his cheek over her heart.

Arthur said, "You are an amazing queen, and a wonderful mother. Lucan is fortunate to have you, he's going to be a faithful prince and a trustworthy king, one day."

She toyed absently with the crisp layers of his golden hair, feeling her way past the compliment to the concern that prompted it. "Did Morgana finally tell you whatever it is she's been keeping from you all week?"

He jerked back so suddenly she almost stumbled.

"What," he said, not really a question.

"You've noticed it, too," she guessed. "Something about her vision that she hasn't said, yet?"

He shook his head, slowly but decisively. "No. No, she always tells us everything about her vision." He maneuvered her and shifted himself, til she was sitting on the bed beside him and he was half-facing her. "Guinevere… do you know how many times she's been convinced that she's seen my death? At least four that I can think of immediately, and probably more. Ten years ago, when we came back to Camelot – did he ever tell you this? – Merlin had seen Morgana's coronation in a future-telling crystal, and was terrified it meant that I'd died."

"What are you saying," Gwen said, gripping his hand on the knee of the dark trousers she wore. "Did Merlin –"

"Merlin's been told another prophecy," he said.

A dark shudder ran through her. Since word of the two visions had begun their preparations for war, Morgana's agitated evasiveness and Freya's preoccupation and the absence of Merlin's indomitable cheer about the palace had worried her on an almost subconscious level.

"So you won't be coming back from the White Mountains," she heard herself say. "Arthur, if these are to be your last days, I would far rather spend them together than sit waiting for a man I might never see again."

And for one brief moment, she memorized the man she loved. His golden hair where the king's crown seemed so natural, the clear blue eyes that could hold humor or anger or anything in-between, maybe not clearly, but she had learned to read his moods. His mouth that could be surprisingly expressive – his body hard and strong and skilled, smooth and warm, fascinating to her whether she was watching him train from afar or moving with him as they loved each other in the stillness and solitude of the night. His hands that handled his sword, his quill, his babies with confidence. His heart. How he threw himself so completely into every problem they faced, and even his diminishing tendencies to self-doubt resulted in a rule that could absorb advice from any corner and resolve the question the stronger for the asking.

She remembered thinking, upon seeing his scar for the first time, the irredeemable loss all the lands would feel, at Arthur's death. Perhaps now he had the years and deeds behind him that the negative effect would not be so great, and the kingdoms of Albion would stand and survive without him. Perhaps she would find a way to stand and survive without him, too.

But oh, she hoped she wouldn't have to!

"Yes – no, I mean," he said, and shook his head, setting his jaw determinedly. "I don't know, for sure. Do you want to know what he told me?"

"No," she decided. "Arthur – no one lives forever. But I'd rather go on as I've begun, hoping for the best and preparing myself for the worst, every time you leave. And not worry about anything more." She scooted closer to him, rumpling the coverlet between them, and laid her hand along the soft beard on his jaw. "Just – be careful."

He nodded, and his gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips; he leaned forward and kissed her.

"Arthur," she scolded, but smiled.

"I can't help it," he mumbled, kissing her again, cupping her shoulder and letting his hand drop to caress her arm. "You're so beautiful when you're worried about me."

He moved closer, kissing down her neck, and she held onto him as he pressed her down to the bed beneath him. She accepted and returned his expression of desire, knowing that this would be the last time – maybe forever – that she would be with him as her husband.

Tomorrow, he would be king. And he would go to war.

**A/N: Hi, I'm back! I'd kind of hoped to get this one done in rough draft form, but I didn't. I think, though, I've got enough to keep regular updates til it's done… This chapter is a bit shorter, but it's the last in the Camelot setting – next chapter, on the road again.**

**Also, just if anyone notices the detail, I've made an executive decision to change a few of the previous chapters, in that Isolde and Istan accompany Tristan north to liaise with Bayard and Lot – it makes more sense that way, than to have Isolde remain behind, or even accompany the rest of the army on her own… **

**Oh, and some dialogue from ep.5.12 "The Diamond of the Day".**


	11. Riding and Hiding

**Chapter 11: Riding and Hiding**

After eight years of kingship, Arthur reflected, there was yet a first – he'd never ridden out at the head of an army.

Patrols, yes. Hunting parties, many. Diplomatic convoys, a handful.

But not more than thirty knights ever before, he thought, listening to the noise of horse and rider, cart and driver, by the hundreds behind him. Facing forward and ignoring his ears only worked so long before uncertainty began to gnaw the corners of his resolve, and several times he caught himself glancing back at the long line of men who followed him, literally and symbolically. Wondering which of them might make the ultimate sacrifice. Wondering if it was cowardly of him, after all, to press on to Badon Hill and avoid the marginally more strategic Camlann.

His attention was diverted by a solitary rider moving up next to him.

"Good of you to join us," he said sardonically to Gwaine, who grinned and shook his long hair back from his face.

"Caerleon made it to the border – you're welcome," the knight said. "Arthur… I really do think that old jackass is going to honor your agreement."

Arthur grunted. "He's a warrior. He'd fight me on a treaty of my offering, but when it's his choice, yes, I think he'll stick to terms."

"Mostly," Gwaine added, and Arthur rolled his eyes. "Where's Merlin?" the knight asked next, putting his hand on the back of his saddle to brace himself as he looked backward over the bobbing heads and rising dust. "I thought he'd be with you?"

"I think he's with the physician's wagon," Arthur answered, turning to look himself. Past the first contingent, past the first wagon where his wife, sister, and niece rode with Lord Lionel for company. "Toward the rear, past the cooks – why?"

"Oh, a wagon," Gwaine said, instead of answering. "Still – all the dust…"

"I'm sure," Arthur drawled, "Merlin can magic a breeze to take care of that."

Gwaine cocked his head, considering the idea a good one, by his expression. "Think they'll let me tie off this old boy –" lifting his reins slightly so Arthur would know he was referring to his mount – "and find a corner to nap in?"

Arthur gave him a stern frown. "You sent a pair of guards to shadow Caerleon, didn't you, you didn't go yourself?"

Again the devil's own grin. "What's your point?"

"You shouldn't need a nap."

"Who said need?" Gwaine returned innocently. "I'm doing it for Merlin – the loss of that scaly old riddle-maker hit him harder than he lets on, I think."

"That doesn't make sense, you know," Arthur told him. "He has your sister in that wagon with him, he doesn't need your company."

Gwaine pulled his horse's head aside, to remove himself from the train of men and ride toward the rear. "Perhaps I should go chaperone, then," he said. "Protect her honor."

"They're not alone," Arthur called after him. "And it's a bit late worrying about reputations, anyway – they've already made you an uncle!"

Gwaine's voice floated back to him. "And I've returned the favor!"

The exchange with Gwaine did serve to lift Arthur's spirits for an hour or two, and then it was another distinctive rider moving up on his left to distract him. The biggest knight, bare-armed and bristle-haired.

"Percival," he greeted his new companion.

"Sire." Percival reined in his mount to match the pace of Arthur's, at the head of the column. "I came to report, the royal party departed for Nemeth an hour after our last wagon cleared the gates."

"Good," Arthur said absently. "Who'd you send with them?"

"Egloval, Cerdic, and Dorin," Percival answered, and Arthur grunted in agreement with his choice.

Four days to Nemeth, and probably as many at least for them to reorganize their kingdom following Odin's invasion and retreat, even with the help of Leon's troops, presumably sent south rather than east after Arthur's message. And then four or five days for any reinforcement troops Rodor could spare, to cross Camelot to Stawell. All told, he could be camped at the earthworks at Badon before Rodor and Mark and Mithian slept in their own beds again. A week and a half, before he could anticipate aid from Nemeth to join them.

And he didn't think, despite his optimistic words to Gwaine, that Caerleon would bring troops posthaste either. If the barbarian king stayed on his side of the border and left Camelot in peace, it was the most Arthur would expect from him.

So they were on their own, with the men they had here, and the advance party with Lancelot. Although, he had half a mind to send Lancelot through Cenred's territory to make sure of the last ruler, at least that he wouldn't attack Stawell or strike further into Camelot while their attention was focused in the White Mountains.

Percival made no further comment; a quiet man by nature, calmly intelligent and confident – and Arthur privately thought, that was how he got along so well with Gwaine.

"Bors and Klaudin are scouting ahead of us," Arthur said. "About two to three hundred yards. If you would hold your position here, I'm going to drop back, try to find Merlin."

Percival was a perceptive man; he didn't have to ask why. Just nodded as Arthur heeled his mount to the side of the column, headed back toward the physician's wagon in the rear.

Everyone, it seemed, knew about the loss of the older dragon – Arthur suspected Merlin had allowed his brother-in-law to spread the news so he wouldn't have to deal with that – and anyone could see that Merlin hadn't been himself the last couple of days.

He'd rather hoped that their conversation in the vaults might have alleviated some of the sorcerer's anxiety, but… well, he had expected Merlin to be riding at his side, too.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin passed the graving tool from his right hand to his left, wiping his sweaty right palm on his trousers-leg. The wagon jolted a bit but he paid little attention, bent over the long bronze piece lying over his knees as he sat cross-legged on the bed.

"Hey, when you're through with his, do I get one?" Gwaine murmured. His head was two feet from Merlin's work-space – quite the testament to his opinion of Merlin's skill, or at least his control – pillowed on one bent arm, his eyes shut against the glare of the rising sun.

Freya's feet rested comfortably on her brother's body as she turned to tie a string of feathery horsetail leaves to the side of the wagon to dry as they rode. Finna, beside her on the bench-seat running the length of the wagon, was similarly occupied, though her feet were tucked back away from the knight's outer knee.

"I'll be lucky if I finish this one by the time we get to Stawell," Merlin told him absently, pressing the round wooden knob of the graver's handle into his palm again.

"Why don't you just –" Gwaine waved his free hand expressively without opening his eyes – "magic the whole thing?"

"That," Merlin murmured, starting on the outer curve of the _frithman _rune, "is what I'm doing, Gwaine."

"No, I mean instead of… by hand."

Merlin didn't answer, focusing his entire being on the perfection of work he was unaccustomed to, under less-than-optimal conditions.

"We have metal-workers, you know," Gwaine added, then grunted as Freya turned again, as though she'd dug her heel into his ribs abruptly. He did open his eyes, then, to shade them in looking up at her. "What?"

She didn't answer him, just gave him a sisterly scolding-frown – and immediately after, a small apologetic smile to Merlin. She understood, he thought.

Doing anything about the Camlann prophecy risked bringing it about. Even telling Arthur about it. But if Freya was right and it was an immutable fact, even if it wasn't yet accomplished, and certain details unspecified, then his freedom lay only in the attitudes and choices he made before the prophecy was fulfilled. He wasn't going to scheme frantically to avert the inevitable, nor would he stand inertly by to watch.

This was – the wagon bumped again and he lifted the point of the graver so he didn't gouge his left hand with the sharp angled point – a precaution.

And, if it helped him to deal with Kilgarrah's death by forming a protection for another of his kin, so much the better.

"Are you using _nering_ or _gescildnes_?" Alator asked from his seat on the wagon-bed behind Merlin, his faded blue tunic tented over bent knees, the trouser leg stuffed in the high boot just at the edge of Merlin's limited field of vision to his left.

"No, it's _frithman_," Merlin said. "And on the other side, I'm going to use _mundheals_. Among others."

"Not to prevent injury?" the older man sounded surprised.

"I haven't the time for that," Merlin said, adjusting his grip to begin on the cross-hatching that would disguise the rune, blending it into the rest of the engraving without diminishing its effectiveness. "if I'd begun a month ago – or a week – maybe. But I doubt this is a battle that will be won in a single day. I can't accomplish the magic necessary to keep him from all harm for the next fortnight; in the time we've got left, it can't be done. But this, I can do."

He twisted the long slim bronze piece slightly, clamping it in the new position with his elbows, and started on _mundheals_.

"Well," a familiar voice called, above the noise of the wagon – and the rest of the army-caravan beyond, "I heard you were with the healers, Merlin, but I fail to see the medicinal value in what you're doing."

"Of course you do," Merlin muttered, not unkindly.

"What is that?" If Arthur had heard him, he'd ignored the comment. "You're engraving a scabbard?" Merlin glanced up at his king, riding comfortably just behind the physicians' wagon on a sand-colored gelding with sun-bleached mane and tail. Arthur's blue eyes twinkled, and his teeth flashed white in his beard as he grinned. "You never told me you were an _artist_."

Merlin allowed a half-smile to show. He remembered, also. A renegade sorcerer, an enchanted crystal, a threat to the king's life. Merlin was capable of transferring an image from memory to parchment with a fairly simple spell, but what he was working on today – and tomorrow, likely – was far more complicated.

"Are you doing that free-hand?" Arthur added.

"Yes," Merlin said. "And you're distracting me – go away." It was distracting, to etch the runes for protection while his friend was ten feet away, whole and unharmed and his heart beat steady with the unanswerable question, _how long_?

"You forget," Arthur reminded him, unperturbed. "I'm the king, Merlin, you don't tell me what to do."

"What would you like me to tell you then, sire?" Merlin said, in a mock-submissive tone, opting to fill in more parallel and perpendicular cross-hatching; it took half the concentration and none of the magic.

"Tell me what you're doing that for," Arthur said.

"For you," Merlin answered.

For a moment, nothing. Then Arthur said, "What."

Gwaine opened his eyes, and wriggled out from under the shady bench-seat to a sitting position, turning to dangle his legs out the open back of the wagon. "It's magic," he said confidentially to Arthur. "It's going to save your life, if he can't, right away."

"Merlin?" Arthur's voice was equal parts uncertainty, and command.

He sighed and wiped sweat from his palm again, so the knob handle wouldn't slip in his grasp, squinting at Arthur. "You remember our first battle?"

"Who could forget?" Arthur said lightly, but his eyes were serious.

"If I hadn't been right next to you, when you got that," Merlin straightened and drew the line of Arthur's scar along the side of his own jacket, "no magic in the world could have saved your life. But we can't assume we'll be right next to each other, this battle. I think it's safe to assume at least one magic-user among our enemies – someone who's familiar with me, at least a bit – so this is for you. If – or when, maybe – we get separated."

"What's it supposed to do?" Arthur said, urging the sand-colored gelding closer to peer down at the scabbard in Merlin's lap.

"It won't stop you getting hurt," Merlin warned him. "But when I'm done with it, it will stop you bleeding to death while you're wearing it. And that includes internal injuries, too – lungs and organs and brain."

"Provided he's got one," Gwaine said comfortably. Finna's eyes went wide; Freya bit her lower lip on a smile, and Alator was pretending that his attention was entirely forward.

The king pointed a gloved forefinger warningly at the knight. "Enough laziness, _Sir_ Gwaine," he said. "Return to your horse, and your duty."

"Well," Merlin said to his brother, as he untied the lead of his own mount, plodding stolidly along the side of the cart, "we do have to protect what little there is, he hasn't got brains to spare."

"Merlin!" Arthur's frown faded quickly, and he only shook his head. "What about you? Still refusing armor? If you anticipate the need for us to split up, how am I going to know you're all right?"

He shrugged. "You're just going to have to trust me."

"That," Arthur told him, half-serious, "does not give me confidence."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Midafternoon the third day. The White Mountains on their left as they bore east toward Stawell.

A rider approached from the flank, and Arthur and Percival at the head of the column watched him come. There were a handful of his knights that he could recognize from this distance by some aspect of appearance or bearing or a distinctive choice of mount. Percival by his size, Kay by his red hair – though because Arthur had left the command of Camelot to Kay in their absence, he wasn't expected _here_ – but this young knight was both short and wide.

"Bors," Percival said, and Arthur made a noise of agreement.

The newcomer rode with speed but not urgency, and gave a respectful nod as he drew abreast of them in the slower but constantly-moving cavalcade. "Sire."

"Report," Arthur suggested.

"A mile to the north, my lord. A force of fifty, led by Sir Leon." The stolid young man allowed himself a lightening of expression – at the thought of joining the senior knight who was more or less his mentor, Arthur thought.

He was looking forward to riding – fighting – alongside Leon as well. They'd missed him in Camelot since his marriage to Lord Godwyn's daughter Elena and his subsequent transference to the northwestern regions of the kingdom, where he also managed the du Bois family estates. Though he couldn't help but wonder what Leon had done about his orders to monitor Odin.

"Percival, carry on to Stawell. Leon and I will meet you there – it can't be more than an hour, now," Arthur said. He'd already sent a messenger ahead to notify Lancelot of their proximity. "Bors, let's go say good afternoon to Sir Leon."

The two of them increased their pace, riding toward the foothills of the White Mountains. Merlin's hometown of Ealdor was now half a day to the west, and Dinas Emrys beyond that. They soon found their allies' troops, sunlight glinting off the armor through the trees, the red-and-black chevron pattern of Godwyn's colors on their tunics.

Leon was unchanged, since the last time he'd been in Camelot. Wavy red-gold hair, mild intelligence and quiet confidence. He spurred his own horse slightly out of his column, less than a quarter of the size of that which Arthur had just departed, to meet them.

"King Arthur," Leon said, smiling under his beard. "And Sir Bors – well met."

"And you, Leon," Arthur said, leaning to clasp his hand. "We look to be in Stawell soon – and out of the saddle for a few blessed hours. But you – I had expected you to be much further south and west of here?"

"And I," Leon replied, "looked to be leading twice as many men to fight with you. I sent Sir Daniel with the troops Olaf raised south to deal with Odin and Nemeth, and chose to come myself to Stawell."

Arthur approved of the choice; Sir Daniel was even-tempered and wise. "Depending on what Lancelot has to say, I'd like to ride out again with an advance party of a tenth of our best troops in the morning. The rest to follow as and when they can."

Leon nodded acceptance and agreement, both. Then said, gently teasing, "Where's Merlin? I rather expected to greet the two of you together, as always. I added a druid friend of his to my party when I passed through Ealdor this morning."

"Merlin fancies himself a metal-worker, these days," Arthur said dryly. It had been a common remark, the last two and a half days.

Leon quirked an eyebrow, uncomprehending, and Bors offered, "He's making something for Arthur."

It was a bit amusing, and maybe slightly annoying, that those words were explanation enough. Merlin was unobtrusive about his magic, usually, and had been in Camelot for twelve years now, so everyone was accustomed to him and his ways. But anything different was also interesting, and soldiers always gossiped, especially on a long trip.

Leon made a leap of intuition, though, that Arthur suspected only a handful of his knights were capable of. "There's news, then, since your message?"

"Yes," Arthur said. And then, "How are Elena and the twins?"

Leon began a lengthy rambling answer, understanding without having to be told that talk of the battle would wait until they reached Lancelot also.

They rode through increasing signs of industry and productivity, approaching Stawell. When the dark peaks of the roof showed above the treetops, and the larger army was both visible and audible in snatches on their right, Bors leaned toward Arthur to point through the trees down the winding track ahead of them.

"Sir Lancelot," he said succinctly.

Arthur took his word for it; Leon didn't disagree.

Lancelot bowed in his saddle as they approached. "My lord," he said. "Welcome to Stawell."

"Thank you," Arthur said. He stood in his stirrups, locating Percival easily at the head of the converging train of me, and the biggest knight spurred his mount toward them. "Perhaps you have someone who can describe the accommodations to Percival to manage?"

"Of course." Lancelot greeted Percival – his onetime second-in-command, when both of them served Lord Lionel.

"Then," Arthur added, "I have a few things to discuss with both of you – Leon and Lancelot."

"If you don't mind riding another half of an hour, sire," Lancelot suggested, "perhaps we could skirt the outpost."

"I'd like to get a closer look at the mountains," Leon agreed.

Bors dropped behind the three of them as they separated from the caravans, and Arthur took a quick look past the square young man. The knights and soldiers would set up camp; the ladies and Lord Lionel and probably the physicians' wagon entire would continue into Stawell.

"It's a pair of long stories for another time," Arthur began, "but I've treaties now with both Odin and Caerleon that ought to ensure stability and peace in our absence."

Leon seemed slightly startled. "The kingdoms stand together then, to face an invasion of foreigners."

"You could put it like that." Arthur thought _stand together_ a bit of a stretch. _Postpone hostilities til we won't be interrupted_, was probably more accurate. "Except for Cenred, we know the intentions of every ruler in Albion."

"Cenred is –" Lancelot hesitated before continuing. "Nowhere to be found. I've had scouts out for several weeks, and more men criss-crossing his lands rather freely since my return. Very few of his fighting men are in evidence, either."

"Perhaps he's found a hole to pull in after himself, until this unpleasantness passes," Leon remarked with the faintest hint of sarcasm.

"I doubt it," Arthur replied. "He's probably found a safe place to watch from, and will descend to pick over the battlefield once the dust settles, like the scavenger he is."

"There," Lancelot said, as they crested a small rise with Stawell at their backs, Bors far enough behind that he would not hear them unless they raised their voices. "It's not Dinas Emrys or Camlann – nothing you'd march an invading army through, but a series of smaller troops carrying their own supplies can cut north around the foot of that hill."

"To the south of the snowy peak," Leon confirmed thoughtfully, and Lancelot nodded.

"We have about four hundred men," Arthur said. "I want ten groups, forty each. I will lead the first, followed by you Leon, Gwaine and Percival, then you Lancelot and Lord Lionel, the others we can decide upon later. At, say, three or four-hour intervals. Four tomorrow, four the next day, then the last two the third day. I want an infirmary set up here – the healers will join the troops on a volunteer basis. And, we'll be going to Badon Hill, not Camlann."

"That's almost half a day further," Lancelot said with surprise. Leon took his gaze from the looming mountains to look at Arthur.

"Yes. It's a tentative change of plans. If our scouts do not encounter the enemy before we can reach Badon, that's where we'll make our stand. Tristan mentioned earthworks, that should be good shelter and cover. Have you been there, Lancelot?"

The knight shook his head, meeting Leon's glance briefly – both of them knew Arthur would have his reasons for the change, and trusted him. Arthur himself wanted to talk about it with Merlin before he revealed the secret of the prophecy to anyone – Guinevere had said she didn't want to know; perhaps his knights would feel the same way, too. It was rather a strange and uncomfortable thing to know, especially considering how Merlin had put it – any action taken to prevent it might be the one cause of it.

"I understand the track goes over the shoulder of the hill," Lancelot answered. "The valley made impassable by a series of springs – the footing is uncertain at best and treacherous at worst, for an army – and only a fool would march his men through their water supply."

"Also, you should know," Arthur added. "Three days ago, the great dragon caught an advance party of Saxons at Camlann. And was killed. So we have only the white dragon to rely on as an additional airborne asset for the battle."

"Is that why he's not with you?" Leon said quietly, and none of them had to clarify who he meant. Arthur just looked at him, and he added, more to himself, "Is that why he's making whatever it is he's making for you."

"The white dragon in the White Mountains," Lancelot said thoughtfully, then met Arthur's gaze with calm dark eyes. "It does seem fitting, sire."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The White Mountains, Freya decided, must have been named for their snow-covered peaks, because they surely weren't named for the hue of their native rock. Stawell was a fortress, built of heavy dark granite, at once imposing and efficient.

She didn't feel self-conscious staring all around her as their wagon followed the smaller and more comfortable cart carrying the queen and lady Morgana through the gates. Alice was doing it too, and Alator as well, though in a series of keen surreptitious glances.

The gate was narrow; she could have put out her arm to touch the stone from her seat at the side of the wagon, and Merlin the same, opposite her, had he not been still bent over the scabbard he was enchanting for Arthur. The wall continued some six feet higher than the tops of the gate-doors; she looked up as they trundled through the barbicon passage at the trapdoor-covered murder-holes, where any attacker breaking through the four-inch-thick oaken gates might expect to be showered with arrows or rocks or burning oil.

Emerging into the surprisingly wide courtyard, she glanced around to see that the castle itself – half the size and height of Camelot's citadel - and actually put her in mind of one of the guard's functional, unadorned helmets – crouched in the center, with outbuildings and homes surrounding, neatly ordered and in some cases built right into the wall. Guards patrolling overhead, family life and everyday chores continuing underneath.

The physicians' wagon was drawn to the immediate right, and the driver set the brake, jumping down to begin unhitching the horses.

Merlin seemed to take no notice, his lanky body contorted around the bronze scabbard as he finished what looked to her, leaning forward to peek over his shoulder, like the last rune, near the point.

After an uncomfortable pause, with the three of them glancing at each other, Alator said, "Emrys."

"Almost done," Merlin said immediately. "Could you find me a file? I'll smooth it out, then after this mount is done, the armoror here can seal it."

"I think I'll find out where they're going to set up the infirmary," Finna commented, shifting on the bench.

Freya turned to hop down so the older two could climb out of the back of the wagon, and watched them disappear in different directions. She leaned against the back of the wagon, careful not to even brush Merlin's knee with her elbow – for the sake of both the artistry and the magic. She saw the gleam of gold obscure the blue of his eyes for a flash, then he shook back his hair; the frown of concentration didn't ease, and he didn't take his eyes from his work even when a shrill whistle echoed through the busy courtyard.

She straightened away from the wagon, shading her eyes with her hand to see her brother, on a mare so dark brown it was almost black, twisted to face her. He spoke down to the side, and as the horse danced a few steps, a figure came into view beside him, dressed in a brown enveloping druid's cloak. Gwaine beckoned to her.

The figure lowered his hood as she joined them; a brown-haired young man with guileless blue eyes, and ears that were inclined to stick out.

"My sister, Freya," Gwaine said to the man. "Merlin's wife."

"Thank you," the druid responded. "It was my pleasure to meet you, Sir Gwaine."

"Oh, please," Gwaine said, grinning and gathering up his reins, "leave off the title. Any friend of Merlin's, and all that. I'll see you later, Freya." He spurred the dark mare back toward the open barbicon passage, leaving her with the druid.

"My name is Gilli," he said, earnest and solemn. "You must be the herbalist from Lionys?"

"I am," she said. "You're a friend of Merlin's – are you looking for him?"

"Yes," Gilli said, following at her gesture, toward the wagon. "I'm the healer for our clan, I came here to offer whatever service I can."

"Which clan?" she asked, noting the bulge of his traveling pack under his cloak, the gold ring on his hand unusual for a druid.

"Ruadan's. But I grew up under Iseldir." His tone held a hint of question.

"Ah," she said, nodding. Yes, he was about Merlin's age. "That's how you knew my husband."

"Yes…" They were close to the wagon now, the front of the bed packed neatly with all manner of medicinal supplies; the top of Merlin's head only visible toward the rear. "What is he doing?" Gilli asked in a quieter voice.

She threw him a wry-friendly smile. "Magic."

His footsteps lagged with a bit of uncertainty, which was good sense; instead of explaining, she went right up to the wagon to stand at Merlin's knee, to show it was safe for Gilli to do the same.

"Permission to approach, Emrys," the druid said lightly.

Merlin yanked his tool up from the engraving that looked finished now to Freya, the reaction keeping his surprise from causing a mistake. And a genuine grin, the likes of which Freya hadn't seen since before they left Camelot spread across his face, easing some of the tension around his eyes. Freya rested her forearm on her husband's thigh, deciding she liked Gilli already, for that alone.

"You made it," Merlin said to him.

"I said I would," Gilli told him, his own smile lightening his solemnity.

Merlin explained down to her, "Gilli brought me word of the seer's vision, in Iseldir's camp a week and a half ago."

Gilli added, "Will says to tell you hello, and stop by if you've the time when you're through conquering armies… his words. He said he'll declare a village holiday, for an hour."

Merlin chuckled. "You've been in Ealdor, then?" He swung his legs to the side to hang off the end of the wagon, moving the scabbard so he could set his hand down on top of Freya's just upward from his knee.

Gilli nodded. "What are you working on there?"

"Defensive magic," Merlin answered, laying aside his hand tool to tilt the scabbard to make it easier to see. "For the king."

"Here's Alator," Freya said. Gilli shifted to include the newcomer respectfully.

"Emrys," Alator said, handing the roughened metal file to Merlin, who immediately bent to work smoothing the etchings he'd done on the scabbard.

"Thanks," Merlin said, almost belatedly. "Alator, this is Gilli. Gilli, Alator of the Catha."

"Oh," Gilli said faintly, losing half a shade of color.

"Not for many long years," Alator told the younger druid, unperturbed. "What clan are you with?"

"Ruadan's," Gilli answered for the second time, glancing at her; she smiled in sympathy for the necessary repetition of information necessary when so many met from different corners of the kingdom.

"Pity – you might have had Iseldir for an elder," Alator said.

"He did, for a while," Merlin murmured above the rasp of metal on metal that was making Freya cringe and rethink her choice to stay close to her husband.

"Well, Ruadan is my father-in-law," Gilli explained.

Alator grunted. "Well, we must all bear our burdens with patience."

Freya decided to put some distance between her ears and the noise of the file smoothing out the tiny scratches Merlin had made into the bronze scabbard – which the three men seemed to take no notice of. She sighed and shook her head – men.

And, thinking of which – there was King Arthur. Dismounted and unattended, except for his lady half-sister, dressed in form-fitting black trousers and a loose silver shirt with a wide neckline, her hair braided down her back.

They were arguing. Clearly, and as if they were alone in the middle of the busy courtyard, the servants and soldiers all hurrying around them as if anxious to avoid any of the bad temper catching them because of proximity.

Freya had found it difficult to get a solid sense of Morgana's personality. Most people, she had learned, made changes that were gradual and few, over the years. Merlin and Arthur, though she had seen them grow and mature, especially after marriage and parenthood, had retained their core traits solidly. Guinevere's compassion and kindness and wisdom and sensitivity had deepened and calmed, somehow; Freya had always admired her, but now she found it hard to believe anyone could be a better queen, or a better match for Arthur.

But the lady was more mercurial. Sometimes she seemed demanding, and sometimes generous to a fault. Sometimes assertive and sometimes withdrawn. Freya thought maybe it had to do with the childhood she'd heard of, that Morgana had grown up between two highly different households, mother and father, two very different opinions on the magic Morgana herself had turned out to possess. Or, possibly, the radical differences between the two half-siblings that Morgana loved.

Just now, Freya saw fear. Anger, and maybe desperation. Quite a lot of _deception_, actually, that hadn't been part of Morgana's character when she'd come to Camelot on previous visits.

That bothered her, and she watched, even as both royals quit the argument to storm in separate directions around the castle, as if they couldn't even agree to enter at the same door.

Fear and desperation were common, with the situation they were entering. Anger, plausible. But deception? It was like a smear of black ink across a brightly-colored painting. Or, worse than ink.

She shivered, and clutched her elbows. And jumped, when Merlin spoke just behind her.

"It's done now, except for the mount."

She turned to see him still focused on the scabbard in his hands, examining the bell-shaped mouth where the added mount would hold the belt-rings.

"But I need Arthur for that," he added.

"He just went that way," Freya told him, pointing.

Merlin nodded, visually searching for and finding the person of his king, just disappearing into the castle. "I think Gilli and Alator will both come with us to Torr Badon, which will leave you and Finna here, if that's all right?"

"Torr Badon?" she said.

"Something Aithusa said. Maybe in reference to the earthworks there," Merlin said absently. "Not really a tower, or a fortress, but not just a bare windy hilltop, either. Anyway… they have the infirmary set up on the south side, and Gwen of course will be with you, so you can ask her if you need anything, or Morgana."

Freya made an involuntary sound of resistance, and he looked at her directly, concern in his eyes.

"What is it?" he said.

Normally he wouldn't ask, and she wouldn't say. But they were going to war, and she understood how he was whenever the safety and well-being of his king was at stake.

"I think you need to talk to Lady Morgana," she said. "She's hiding something."

He nodded, unsurprised. As she was; Merlin was highly observant, and often felt the same things she did.

Then he wrapped his free arm around her and pulled her close; she twined her arms around him beneath his unfastened jacket and tipped her face up to receive his kiss. Well, both of them.

"Thank you," he said, his heart in the words – gratitude for more than just her insight. For everything. She understood; she felt the same way.

"Last resort," she told him, referring lightly to something she'd said to him long ago. _I know you'd die for Arthur, just – as a very last resort? Your life is important, too…_

He smiled down into her eyes, raising one eyebrow slightly. "Ware-stone," he reminded her in return.

Then he released her and went after Arthur.

**A/N: Definition of the 'runes' Merlin used on the scabbard (which idea I got from the legends, not my own brain), **_**frithman**_** – one who is under special protection; **_**mundheals**_** – safety which comes from the protection afforded by another. The runes Alator suggested, **_**nering**_** – protection defense; **_**gescildnes**_** – shielding.**


	12. Blood and Betrayal

**Chapter 12: Blood and Betrayal**

It had been Merlin's intention to speak privately to the lady Morgana for some time. Before they left Stawell for the north, of course, but his natural disinclination to know the future and his new focus on the tangible piece of magic - in his hand as he climbed the stairs of the castle to the guest wing – had so far provided a good excuse for him to delay.

But if Freya had voiced the suggestion…

"It's done," he called to Arthur, rounding the corner just as the king opened the door of his temporary chamber.

Arthur's face held a controlled impatience for a single instant longer, before he visibly relaxed on recognizing him, and jerked his head in invitation for Merlin to enter behind him.

"Well," Merlin added, closing the door behind him and holding out the bronze scabbard for Arthur's inspection, "almost. It still needs sealing, and even though it works now, for anyone who has it in his possession, there's still a bit of magic to be done to the mount –" he dug the silver gilt piece from his pocket – "to bond it to _you_."

Arthur wore the skeptical expression which usually served to cover surprise or deeper emotion, as he examined the scabbard. "It's –" He cleared his throat. "Well, it isn't completely unsightly, at least."

"And it'll save your life," Merlin said, hearing the true compliment and sentiment behind his king's verbal reticence. "Try the sword." He added, as Arthur reached to his hip to draw the dragonsword, "I'll admit I'm no expert with weaponry –" cover a grin at Arthur's ironically-raised eyebrow – "but I think it ought to –"

The sword slid into the scabbard with a satisfyingly perfect ring of metal; the fit looked snug and comfortable, to Merlin.

"And there you go," he finished.

"Won't do me much good without that piece," Arthur remarked. He traced one of the runes incorporated into the design on the front face of the bronze piece with his thumb, nodding at the mount in Merlin's hand – a circular cuff meant to fit around the bell-shaped mouth of the scabbard, with rings attached to the sides where the sword belt would loop through. "I can't ride to Badon holding this thing in my hand."

He reached peremptorily, and Merlin passed the mount to him; Arthur took a moment to study it as well.

"Who are these two men?" Arthur asked, pointing to two heads-in-profile, at either end of the curved piece.

Merlin gave a huff of amusement. That, he hadn't done; the mount had already been decorated, at least on the outside. "It's you and me, sire, if you like," he said, with the exaggerated tone of an adult humoring a child.

Arthur's mouth twitched. "But we're looking in opposite directions," he said. "Does that mean we never see eye to eye?"

"It means we're like two sides of the same coin," Merlin said, keeping a straight face with an effort.

"There's no such thing as a two-headed coin, unless it's been stamped incorrectly," Arthur returned. "There's heads, and there's tails, so if we're two sides of the same coin, obviously I'm the head which makes you the tail."

He shrugged innocently. "I'd rather be a coin's tail than a horse's –"

"_Mer_lin," Arthur warned, with a glint of humor and danger and maybe relief in his blue eyes. "Shut up."

"Well. This won't take a minute," Merlin said, plucking the mount from his king's hand. "You can sit down if you want. Can I borrow your knife?"

Arthur froze momentarily, halfway to sitting in the chair beside the small table in the fore-chamber. "Excuse me?"

Merlin perched on the tabletop in a cross-legged position, feeling the protest of joints and muscles at returning to the position he'd forced his body to hold for hours at a time, the past two days. "Come on." He snapped his fingers impatiently. "We haven't got all day."

And, he needed to find Morgana. He didn't figure a casual mention over a company dinner this evening would suffice, somehow.

Arthur settled into the chair, leaning to the side to free his belt knife and gave it a flip to hand to Merlin hilt-first. Then hissed and made to grab it back as Merlin laid the edge to the heel of his hand. "What are you –"

"Don't worry about it," Merlin said, wincing as the blade opened the layers of skin to free the blood vessels. "I'll get one of the other healers to fix it later – maybe Gilli, I don't think you've ever met him, he's a friend of mine from –"

"Merlin," Arthur interrupted, with a look of mild distaste. "I didn't know it was going to be _blood_ magic."

"Oh." Merlin blinked at him, turning his hand palm-up so the welling blood wouldn't spill. "I'm sorry, I should've said. There isn't any better way to personalize the magic in the scabbard to you – and it's stronger, that way. Look." He turned the cuff over awkwardly, one-handed. "Here's your name, in the old language."

"I think you've misspelled it," Arthur remarked sardonically, "there are more letters in my name than that."

"Which only proves that I'm the better-educated man, of the two of us," Merlin returned. "The old language combines certain sounds into one symbol. So your first name is condensed to these three characters. Ar-th-ur. See? And then P-en-dr-a-g-o-n, another seven."

"And what's this symbol, then?" Arthur asked, touching a complexity of fine lines that swirled around each other yet never seemed to cross.

"It's a – never mind," Merlin said. A bit embarrassed, to tell the truth; he hadn't expected Arthur to ask for an explanation. Usually he simply trusted whatever part of the fantastic whole Merlin chose to tell him without much questioning – and _that_ addition had been more whimsy than necessity.

"What is it?" Arthur said. "Merlin?"

"It's your right thumbprint," Merlin admitted, feeling his face heat, and avoiding his king's eyes – astonished blue, he'd seen the expression dozens of times. "Please don't ask." To distract them both, he carefully smeared his blood along the inside of the mount, along the grooves of Arthur's name, signing the magic and readying the enchantment to serve a new master.

Freely given, and measured in drops.

He grabbed a polishing cloth from his pocket and wrapped his hand temporarily. "Your turn."

Arthur held out his hand, wordlessly and immediately, and Merlin quickly wiped the knife-blade on the cloth-bandage on his hand to provide some semblance of cleanliness. Arthur scoffed at that a bit, shaking his head, as he made a similar cut on his own palm.

"Okay, just – tip your hand slowly," Merlin said, positioning the cuff. And as the king did so, and the bright red drops rolled and fell, he spoke. "_Cocer, ahielde heolfor cynelic Arthur Pendragon, feorhgener_."

As he finished, the last drop of blood landed – and sizzled, slightly, as the metal warmed with a brief glow. Then, there was only a reddish tint to the silver gilt, nothing to rub or wash off.

"There," Merlin said, pleased with the result. "Now we'll need the armoror to fit it on, and then – see, it's working already."

Arthur turned his hand as if it belonged to someone else, to look at the cut, still open but no longer bleeding. He quirked one eyebrow at Merlin silently.

"Well, the magic's still new, obviously, so it's very strong," Merlin said defensively. "Give it a decade or two, and you'll probably still bleed, just not… to death." He stopped uncertainly, as Arthur's expression shifted to one that did actually hide what he was thinking from Merlin, almost always unconsciously done.

"Give it a decade," Arthur repeated.

And Merlin remembered. The Camlann prophecy. Well, even so.

"Or two," he added stubbornly. "Probably longer. It depends, a bit, on how often you're injured?" He reached to touch the cut on Arthur's palm, and spoke briefly to actually close the cut. "_Thurhhaele_."

Arthur shook his head. "Merlin, do you even realize that you're –"

"The strangest boy you ever met?" Merlin suggested with a grin.

"Without a doubt." Arthur gave him a reserved sideways smile, then pushed to his feet and crossed to the door. "Are you coming to the armoror's?"

"No, I was going to talk to Morgana," he answered, following.

Arthur gave an irritated growl as they emerged from the guest chambers of Stawell's castle to the corridor. Narrower than their Camelot counterparts, and as a garrison there was somewhat less need for ornament.

"See if you can talk some sense into her," he advised Merlin over his shoulder, striding toward one of the larger stairways accessing the main level of the keep. He held up his hands – scabbard in one and mount in the other, and raised his voice in mimicry of his half-sister. "Heaven forbid I should actually hurt one of the Saxons."

"Is it you she's worried about fighting, or she just doesn't want anybody fighting at all?" Merlin asked.

Arthur missed the implication of his question. "I don't know, but every time I turn around, it's treaty this and truce talks that, and – oh, there's Guinevere. She should know where Morgana is."

The queen sat sideways in a window-nook, gazing out the arrow-slit window rather absently, Merlin thought, and held back as Arthur bent to kiss his wife – the salute landing on a round cheek instead of her lips as she turned, startled.

"Oh, Arthur!" she said, touching his shoulder to participate in the quick embrace – then looked over his shoulder to smile at Merlin.

"Have you seen Morgana?" Arthur asked without preamble.

"She – came inside a little while ago," Gwen replied, with the set of jaw that said she was tempering the truth slightly to avoid offending her audience, or speaking ill of her subject. She pointed down the stair – she had an angled view. "She didn't see me; she seemed quite upset."

"I'll bet she was," Arthur muttered.

"She went down that hall there," Gwen added. "I saw you two argue – you should talk to her, Arthur, you're leaving tomorrow and might…" She didn't finish, but Merlin heard what she hadn't said. There might not be another chance.

Arthur grumbled a bit, then acquiesced, dropping another quick kiss on her forehead. "All right," he said, jogging down the stairs to stride just ahead of Merlin, "let's get this over with."

"I've never had a sister," Merlin said contemplatively, lengthening his own stride to keep up with his king comfortably, "but I imagine that's a rather counterproductive attitude."

Arthur shot him a glare for habit's sake, and at the juncture of that corridor with another, growled out, "So where has she gotten to?"

"Hold on," Merlin said, ducking his head a bit to _look_, with his inner eye. He couldn't see through things, like walls or doors, but he could see around… two corners… up a flight of stairs… out onto the flat rooftop of one of the towers. Morgana stood facing north. He closed his eyes to adjust his vision's return to the physical use of it rather than the magical, and blinked at Arthur. "This way."

The corners, the stairs, the rooftop – and when they stepped out, Morgana was no longer simply standing still and gazing at the mountains, but bent over the crenellation at the edge of the tower, hands extended in an odd attitude.

"Morgana!" Arthur called, to get her attention.

She spun in her odd crouch, surprise – then fear – paling her features further. And when she moved, she revealed the object of her focus on the wall – a great black crow.

A tiny paper held in frozen fingertips. And she'd been waiting for messenger and message… from the north?

Morgana flung out her hand, barking a command – the bird leaped and flapped, and Merlin spoke a spell of his own.

"_Cume mec, hraefn wan_." It was stronger than Morgana's, and so the crow wheeled, circled back to him with a flutter of feathers, and landed on his outstretched hand, mostly protected from the claws by the makeshift bandage.

"What is going on?" Arthur demanded, looking from the recalled crow to his half-sister.

She drew herself up imperiously – which served to emphasize her expectant condition, another niece or nephew for Arthur, which was maybe what she intended. "Nothing," she snapped. "It's none of your business."

"Morgana," Arthur began, darkly displeased, but Merlin turned his attention to the bird.

Wordless magic, and he'd never used it on an animal this way before – the opposite of giving a winged messenger the image of the place and recipient of a message of his, as he'd done in Lionys to communicate with Arthur - the bird saw in a very strange way. It gave Merlin a mild headache to try to discern the images, but the sender of the message was quite clear.

Long blonde waves, delicate features that nearly mirrored Morgana's, legacy of the mother they shared. A gross webbing of scars surrounded the film-obscured right eye.

"Oh, hells," he said feelingly. "Your _sister_?"

"Morgause?" Arthur said blankly, and looked again to Morgana, whose expression now included defiance. "I thought she was with the priestesses on the isle."

"She is," Morgana stated shortly.

"But that's south of here." Arthur pointed the direction opposite the side of the tower where Morgana stood.

Merlin said, "She's with the Saxons. Isn't she? She's the one who cursed my clan." He felt quite calm, but also quite hot, inside. Fury and fire. "Didn't she?"

"It wasn't her fault!" Morgana blazed - realized she might have said too much – decided she didn't care.

"I'll decide that," Arthur said, every inch a king. "Give me that note."

"No," Morgana said, closing it in her fist.

"I have to see it," Arthur said, grimly resolute. "On the eve of battle, my men's lives may depend -"

Morgana made a swift gesture, her eyes gleamed, and the tiny paper disappeared in a spark of flame and a puff of smoke. Arthur's jaw tightened, and he dropped his hand. She spoke swiftly, looking only at her brother. "Last year she left the isle – she wasn't a prisoner, after all, they were just caring for her – she was coming to visit me, I asked her –"

"She was officially banished from Camelot," Arthur reminded her with a hint of incredulity. "And you asked her here to my outpost?"

Morgana bristled at his use of the possessive term, but didn't challenge it. "She was coming up the coast. Traveling on Cenred's land. I was going to meet her, but –" she hesitated.

"But what, Morgana," Arthur said. A warning, and a demand.

"She met someone," Morgana said, deliberately evasive. "He – seduced her, he must have, took advantage of her since she's –" Her glance at Merlin was at once guilty and resentful – though maybe she only resented feeling guilty.

He understood. Morgause had recovered to a state quite close to Uther Pendragon's, after that battle. Able to care for her own basic needs, carry on a conversation, remember things, but in a very childlike way. With very little calculation or motivation. Which, for a magic-user and a strong one, wasn't a safe situation. The priestesses were meant to be making sure she didn't become a danger to anyone, with her magic.

"Who?" Arthur said. "Come on, Morgana, I know how you feel about her, but surely you don't have any reason to protect whoever she's with. Do you."

"Cenred," she muttered.

Cenred. General Vortigern's son, a weasel of a man Merlin hadn't personally laid eyes on since the day of his youthful almost-sacrifice.

"And Cenred is allied with the Saxons," Arthur said, with a dreadful sort of calm.  
It was nothing to what Merlin was feeling. "Fourteen people, Morgana," he said. The crow on his wrist fluttered agitated wings briefly before settling again. "Fourteen of my clan, dead because she cursed them to stop them helping Arthur when the Saxons arrived. And four of them were children." Deliberately he glanced at her belly – her hand dropped to cover the bulge of her unborn child defensively. "She told them of the dragons also, didn't she? Morgana? She's why Kilgarrah's dead?"

Arthur transferred the scabbard and mount to his other hand to put one on Merlin's shoulder, and he quieted. Slightly.

"Your sister is allied with our enemies," he concluded stonily. "That makes her our enemy, also." Again.

"No," Morgana protested. "It's not her fault, she doesn't know what she's doing-"

Merlin snorted – fourteen dead druids seemed very deliberate to him.

"Oh," Arthur said suddenly, his fingers gripping Merlin's shoulder. "Morgana. Tell me this isn't the reason you've been pushing for peace talks and a treaty. To protect your sister in the ranks of the invaders, you'd have us settle and compromise?"

"I've been trying to talk her into leaving them," Morgana said. "I thought maybe, if she was given the chance –"

Arthur dropped his hand, shaking his head slowly. "Why didn't you tell me when you knew she left the isle, when you knew she joined Cenred, when you knew they'd gone over to the Saxons?" he said. "How can I believe you now? How do I know you're not sending them information on our troops and movements?"

"Arthur! I would never!" Her green eyes flashed wide with shocked affront.

"How do I know, Morgana! How do I trust that you're not plotting with them against us – maybe what you saw was my death and our defeat and since you can't change that, you've decided to negotiate for your own benefit when the Saxons invade?" His voice had risen with each question, and even Merlin was taken aback. "How do I know I haven't been betrayed by a traitor from my own household?"

Morgana raised her hand and slapped Arthur's face. Not hard. But he was the king.

Arthur's jaw clenched, and his eyes were icy-hard when he faced her again. "I haven't the time or inclination to start an inquiry into the affair," he said. "But if I were you, I would go directly to my chamber, right now, and stay there until well after the army is away from Stawell."

Morgana's fists were white-knuckle tight, but she said nothing. Arthur faced Merlin.

"Send that thing back to the witch and make sure she knows we've discovered the communication."

Merlin nodded. That meant Morgause – or those advising her – would not try to contact Morgana again, and anything Morgana managed to convey would be suspected by them.

"I," Arthur said grimly, "have to get to the armory." He turned for the stair that descended back into the tower, and Merlin unconsciously shifted to cover his departure.

Morgana noticed. "You can't think I mean him any harm?" she said, irritated. "My own brother, Merlin?"

Merlin refrained from pointing out that she'd just struck him. "You know I can't take the chance," he said. "If you were Gwen, I'd do the same."

He watched her for a moment longer, saw frustration, mostly. Her impetuosity and attachment to her older sister had gotten them all into trouble before – and while it might be true that she never intended this to happen, while he might be able to believe her innocent of the darker charges Arthur had leveled as possible, the fact of her behavior and choices remained to testify against her trustworthiness. But, knowing they wouldn't see her again before they rode out in the morning – and maybe not ever again, therefore, he spoke gravely before turning to leave.

"Goodbye, Morgana."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Dinner was a disaster, Gwen reflected glumly, toying with her tableware and sitting very straight and acting very calm.

Morgana hadn't made an appearance at all, even though she was hostess. Lancelot murmured apologies and vague excuses for his wife; he didn't even know why she wasn't there, Gwen suspected. And Lancelot on edge was even more rigidly proper than his ever-courteous attention to appropriate protocol and respect due his superiors.

Arthur was in a foul mood. Something more than just the tension of marching to battle at dawn – having to lead their men to battle at dawn – the burden of responsibility and command that always weighed so heavily on him when lives were at stake. Because he was a good king, he wanted to protect his people – all his people, even his fighters. But because he was a good king, he had to allow, even order, those fighters to a possible death, for the protection of all.

But. Tonight he even snarled at Merlin, and bridled at the cautionary hand Gwen laid on his forearm.

And Merlin. Sometimes more sensitive to Arthur's moods than even she was, intuitive and sympathetic, was like flint to Arthur's steel, that night. She didn't think they'd quarreled, only that they were separately upset and stressed – maybe even about the same thing.

The prophecy? Perhaps Morgana – Gwen opened her mouth to ask. Then shut it again. She still didn't want to know.

She did wish there were more of Arthur's senior knights present. Freya sat at Merlin's other side but with no other conversation, it was awkward to lean around the sorcerer to speak with his wife – and would probably embarrass the quiet younger woman. Gwaine would liven things up, and Percival's quiet confidence smooth the sharper emotions of the situation. Her own father, Lord Lionel, might have conducted a successful conversation – she'd witnessed it at their palace in Lionys many times – but he had been tired from the trip and was enjoying his dinner from a tray in his own room.

Gwen wasn't half done with the food on her plate when Arthur abruptly muttered something about inspections and pushed up from his place at the honorary head of the table. As visiting royalty he outranked Sir Lancelot the administrator of the estate and commander of the outpost of Stawell.  
Merlin frowned faintly at his wine goblet – nearly untouched – twisting it between his fingers. And seemed not to notice Arthur's departure.

Gwen leaned forward slightly to catch Freya's attention; she was watching her husband quietly, hands in her lap. Then Merlin smiled and gave them all a small self-conscious smile – even Lancelot who was still on his feet after Arthur's exit.

"Please excuse me," Merlin said only, giving no reason. But he left through the same door that Arthur had just taken, and his steps were hurried.

Gwen repressed the urge to sigh, also, and stood, quickly followed by Freya. "Lancelot, I know tomorrow will be early, and busy, for you as well," she said. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"My pleasure, my lady," he said, giving her a mannerly half-bow, though both acknowledgements were done absent-mindedly. He seemed lost in thought, his attention mostly on the empty doorway where the king and his sorcerer had disappeared.

As Gwen turned, Freya fell into step with her; though neither said anything til they'd reached the outer hall, the silence between them wasn't strained. Freya was one of those rare women who was a good listener, and seemed to understand and accept the moods, thoughts, and feelings of those around her without judgment. They'd already spoken of the accommodations, the expectations for daily occupation. They didn't have to talk about their shared concern for Arthur and Merlin, and what tomorrow meant.

Perhaps trying to explain the tension at dinner, and its abrupt end, Freya said, "I think they found out who the magic-user is, who allied with the Saxons, and attacked Merlin's clan with that plague."

"Oh," Gwen said, with blank surprise. She'd mostly forgotten that detail, that perhaps they'd be facing enemy magic, in this battle. "That's for sure, then?"

"I think so. Merlin didn't say who. But – he was angry, more than scared?"

Gwen nodded; that detail made her feel better. It wasn't good, whatever they discovered, but Merlin thought he could handle it. "Do you know how they found out?"

"Aithusa, maybe?" Freya ventured. Gwen glanced at her friend to see Freya's hand spread flat over her belly in an unconscious gesture Gwen knew well. Having had three, herself.

"Have you told him?" she asked. She'd been surprised, initially, that Freya had come with the other two healers from Lionys – and Merlin himself an accomplished physician, though likely he would be involved with the fighting side of the battle – but then again, she'd been surprised that the younger woman had come with the party from Lionys ten years ago, and then proved herself invaluable.

Freya shot her a startled look, but Gwen only raised an eyebrow, and she gave a breathless chuckle. "Yes, he knows," she admitted. "I wasn't going to tell anyone else, until it was obvious…"

For good reason, Gwen knew, and put her arm around Freya's slender shoulders as they strolled.

"I _haven't_ told him…" Freya said in a low voice, and came to a halt. "I think… it might be a boy."

"Oh?" Gwen didn't understand the significance, right away. Then – "_Oh_. How do you know? I mean, what makes you think –"

"The other day. When Kilgarrah was killed." Freya glanced at her, pressing lightly against her stomach. "I felt it. When it happened, before Arthur told me. And I can't see that being a coincidence, or any other reason for it, except –"

"If you're carrying Merlin's son," Gwen finished. And found she couldn't suppress a smile, at the thought. "The next dragonlord. Have you talked to Hunith?"

Freya shook her head. "I think she guessed, though."

"But why haven't you told Merlin?" Gwen said, pulling her arm to continue to walk. "I'm sure he'd be thrilled."

"Because, what if something happens?" Freya said. "He would be devastated, Gwen. Even though he loves Marya so much, and I think it honestly wouldn't matter to him either way, if we had another child, boy or girl. But to think, to expect a son – and then lose him? I can't, Gwen, not when they're facing a battle at Badon hill."

A thought occurred to her – she wondered if the unborn child's connection to the dragon meant he was destined to be the next dragonlord – and if so, that meant he would be carried to term safely… But she couldn't mention the fancy to either Freya or Merlin for confirmation – it wouldn't be fair to raise hopes if it wasn't true – and she understood Freya's decision a little better.

"Well, it's going to be an early morning, that's for sure," she said as they reached the corner where their ways parted. "And if your husband sleeps half as restlessly as mine when he's got something this critical on his mind, you won't get much sleep anyway."

Freya smiled sadly. "Mine can perform a sleeping spell, if he thinks he's keeping me awake."

"Surely he doesn't do magic on you without your permission," Gwen said, releasing her in pretended shock.

Freya turned to go. "No, I say yes because – he feels better, sometimes, knowing I'm in a deep sleep…"

Gwen gave a little wave, and watched her out of sight. Shaking her head and thinking, she was a good match for Merlin, after all.

Back in the guest chambers she shared with Arthur, Gwen waited.

Time passed.

She bathed. And brushed her hair out, dismissing the pretty blonde maid Morgana had assigned to her upon their arrival, in order to use up more time doing it herself.

It was dark. And Arthur hadn't returned. Patience gave way to exasperation, then concern.

And a knock at the chamber door had her starting up, heart in her throat. Arthur wouldn't knock. She hurried to open it, and found Lancelot in the corridor outside. A quick glance to either side showed no Arthur – no guard either – probably they were needed elsewhere.

"My lady, might I speak with Arthur a moment?" he said. "I will be brief, I –"

"He's not here, Lancelot," she said. "He hasn't come back yet from inspecting the men – or equipment, or horses, or whatever."

"I see." His carefully neutral expression irritated her, suddenly. Because that felt better than worry.

"What is going on?" she asked, then inserted a bit of demanding-queen into her tone. "Lancelot?"

"Perhaps I could speak with you, then, my lady?" he said. "Not here, of course, but there's a seat in the alcove at the end of the hall?"

"Yes," she said. "One minute – let me get my robe." She retreated into the room, grabbing the garment from where the maid had laid it out across the bed, in her haste simply wrapping it closed, rather than using buttons or belt.

The hall was still deserted except for the knight, waiting patiently at the alcove. She hurried to join him, perching on the seat and crossing her ankles.

"What, then?" she demanded, half afraid he would confirm her fears about Merlin's prophecy and Morgana's vision.

"King Arthur and Lady Morgana," he said. "And the question of joined war or peaceful compromise."

"They argued earlier," Gwen said. "I know they don't agree on which is the best approach to resolving the situation."

"What is your opinion?" he asked her. A bit absently, and with his eyes on the stone floor, as though he was unsure, himself, and had maybe forgotten who he was talking to.

"My opinion matters little to anyone other than Arthur," she reminded him gently. "It is he who decides, ultimately." They'd discussed it already. She was more inclined to try for a peaceful agreement than for the two armies to come out, swords drawn - but she appreciated that he had a different viewpoint, being a man, a king and warrior, a strategist and leader of men. "I don't understand why this question is so important to Morgana, though."

"I must confess, I don't either," he admitted unhappily, going down on one knee next to her alcove-seat. "I'm not sure His Majesty told you, but he confined Morgana to her quarters over the disagreement, until the army has left Stawell."

Gwen controlled her expression with an effort. That seemed quite harsh for Arthur, even knowing Morgana's temper when crossed – and figuring how the black-haired princess would have reacted to such strictures imposed on her in her own house. It was the sort of heavy-handedness both of them had indicated they felt and resented from their father, at times.

"I can talk to him, I suppose, about lifting that," she said. "He can perhaps rethink his decision if he's cooled off a bit."

Lancelot's expression shifted just slightly, gaining a hint of distaste. "She asked me to pass along a message as well, for you," he said. Gwen leaned forward on her knees. "She asks you to speak with her brother, try to change his mind about the peace-talks. She said, it may be that lives will be spared. Only, she didn't want you to let Arthur know that she'd influenced you, she thought he'd ignore you for spite if he found that out."

She didn't immediately respond. Wanting to be sympathetic without compromising herself or Arthur or their relationship; she had to be careful about what she promised. "You know I shouldn't agree to that –"

"What the hell is going on?" Arthur's voice demanded. Not so much a question as an accusation, as he stepped out from the shadow of a stairway just around the corner.

She jumped, startled; she hadn't heard his footsteps approaching. Lancelot pushed to his feet – as surprised as she, Gwen thought, but better able to cover it.

"I am sorry, my lord," Lancelot said – glancing at her as Arthur did, furious disbelief on his face twisting her heart with a fatalistic sort of guilt she didn't understand. "I came to speak to you, but… you weren't…"

"Lancelot," Arthur said, controlling his expression and his voice. "It is late at night, and you are in a secluded corner with my wife in her nightgown."

"Arthur!" she gasped at his insinuation – though whether he believed the implications or was offended at the possibility of the misunderstanding of anyone else who happened along, she didn't know. And then she realized that the front of her robe was open to the waist – though her nightgown was opaque and dipped no lower than her collarbone.

"No!" Lancelot was shocked from his usual unruffled demeanor. "No, my lord – I would never! I was merely conveying a message from my wife to yours, sire, and –"

"Yes, I heard." His knuckles were white on the hilt of his sword – for an incongruous second, Gwen noticed the new bronze scabbard - his spine very straight, his posture defensive.

She wanted to put her arms around him, soothe and reassure him – but couldn't. Not when he was looking at her like that, and Lancelot was there. It would have the opposite effect, she was afraid. Tears stung her eyes.

"Not a romantic betrayal, then." Ice-blue eyes pierced her accusingly, then Lancelot. "But a political one."

"Sire, there is no betrayal," Lancelot insisted.

"You are dismissed," Arthur said stonily. "Your orders remain unchanged." As though his senior knight was no more than one of the squires-in-training.

Lancelot took no offense. A momentary hesitation only, then he bowed, and murmured acquiescence.

Gwen stood, leaving the robe as it was. Perhaps it had been ill-advised to meet Lancelot here and now and like this, but – "Arthur," she said, taking a step toward him.

He took a step back. "How long, madam –" her heart thumped a wild pained protest at that term – "have you been entertaining petitioners behind my back? And what favors accepted, to sway my judgment?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped back, unable to simply receive the unjust anger and scorn. "You know people come to me with questions and concerns, they have since our coronation, and possibly before. I have never been dishonest with you about it, nor have I ever said anything to you on these matters that I haven't thought through and made up my own mind about – and you know I've never crossed a decision you've made public."

"Don't let Arthur know," he said softly, his eyes blazing. "He'll ignore you from spite."

"Oh, for goodness sake," she said, self-conscious about arguing in a corridor in someone else's home in her nightclothes, and a bit angry and hurt that he was allowing this – choosing this – for their last night together before war. "Your sister said that, and you know –"

"Yes," he said. "My sister, who I thought I could trust. And if I'm wrong about her, who else might I be wrong about?"

She felt his words like a physical blow, and two tears dripped on her cheeks when she blinked, though she despised herself for the weakness. She whispered, "I'm your _wife_, Arthur."

"Yes. And meeting another man clandestinely late at night in –"

A sob stuck in her chest and she refused to release it. Instead she dropped her head and pushed past him, escaping the pain of this bewildering argument, back into their room.

He didn't follow her.

She went first to the velvet-padded dressing-table stool and cried. Very hard for a few moments, her own anger at his unfairness, then a bit of bitter misery at his stubbornness and refusal to listen, then in self-pity that she was alone, that he hadn't come to try to talk about it calmly, understand it, end and comfort the hurt she felt, that he'd caused.

Finally when she was through with the indulgence of tears, she wiped her nose and eyes. Got up, extinguished most of the candles, and went to bed. Where she curled up very small and tried very hard to slip into oblivious slumber.

It was a while before she succeeded.

**A/N: Merlin's magic on the scabbard-mount roughly translates: **_**Sheath, hold/keep royal blood/life of Arthur Pendragon (for the) preservation of life**_**.**

**The healing spell is one used in ep.1.13 "Le Morte d'Arthur". No irony there, huh.**

**The spell for the raven was used by Morgana in ep.5.4 "Another's Sorrow".**

**PS, as far as the condensation of Arthur's name to 10 symbols goes, entirely my fabrication.**


	13. Stawell to Badon

**Chapter 13: Stawell to Badon**

Half an hour until dawn.

Arthur readjusted the girth buckle he'd just tightened. Keeping his hands busy and his attention on this very small detail to better ignore the rest of the courtyard.

But then it was done. Everything was done that he could do. He stood leaning against his mount's side and closed his eyes, feeling the chill damp of early spring pre-dawn. Hearing faintly – thought maybe it was only his imagination – the sounds of the knights and soldiers of his army preparing, outside Stawell's high thick walls. Half an hour and he and Merlin would ride out with the first tenth of the army, forty men.

"Have you not slept at all?" Merlin's voice said. He was occupied adjusting his own saddle, a short distance away but close enough to speak to Arthur without raising his voice.

Arthur grunted, and didn't mention what sort of night's sleep he had. "I've been thinking."

And, to his eternal credit, Merlin didn't fire back the obvious insult. "What d'you think?"

Badon Hill and Camlann – one safe, one smart. His sister, and _her_ sister, and Merlin, who'd been hurt by the blonde witch both times they'd been face to face. The first, when Morgause had hoped to prompt Merlin to abandon the Pendragons and join his power to hers. The second, when Morgause had almost succeeded in turning Morgana against them, and this time…

He sighed, and shook his head. And Guinevere. "This battle. No matter how I feel about it, Morgana's reasons for championing the idea, is it fair to the men for me to reject the idea of compromise?"

Merlin's expression hardened, just slightly, and Arthur remembered that his friend had already suffered loss in this conflict, the loss of innocents, no less. But when he spoke, it was gentle and compassionate. "No one could care more for their men than you do. To send them into battle is not a decision that you would make lightly, they know that."

"But," Arthur said deliberately, "was it the right decision?" Perhaps the dual visions had made war _inevitable_, but did it follow that it was _right_? "Shouldn't I, as king, set aside my personal feelings for the good of the kingdom?"

Merlin finished his adjustment and turned. "Perhaps it's true that you can't rule with your heart," he said. "But you ought not rule _without_ it, either." His eyes slid past Arthur's shoulder, and his expression changed subtly. "Excuse me, sire?"

That startled Arthur from reverie to alertness. Merlin never called him that except in situations of either extreme – sarcasm or sincerity. Because they both knew it was a reminder that Arthur found uncomfortable, that his friend and a powerful sorcerer and not even raised a citizen of Camelot, chose to call him lord of his own volition.

He watched the younger man cross the courtyard and saw his reason – Freya waited there. Merlin quickened his last few steps and caught her up in his arms, she unhesitatingly returning the embrace. It brought to Arthur a fleeting sensation of loneliness and stupidity.

To shake that off, he stepped to his horse's head – and Freya's companions came into view.

Guinevere. Dressed in the dark trousers and light shirt and plum over-tunic he'd removed before their private farewell, the last night in Camelot.

It made the lingering stiffness in muscles and bones from sleeping on a spare blanket in a spare tent with the army last night, threaten to turn into permanent grouchiness.

Lord Lionel stood with them also. The older warrior wouldn't leave Stawell until noon tomorrow; Arthur was glad Guinevere would have her father a bit longer, as Freya would have her brother, til this afternoon – and Morgana, her husband. Lancelot was here somewhere as well, but he wouldn't lead his troops from Stawell for another twenty-four hours.

An ugly doubt surfaced. Should he leave Lancelot here, as he left Guinevere here. Never before had he doubted his wife's love and loyalty. And perhaps if he had not been feeling so raw and insecure after the nasty shock of Morgana's deception – an understandable choice, maybe, but still wrong – the sight of his knight and his wife, late and alone and lacking proper clothing, close and in confidence in the conversation he'd just caught the tail of, might not have affected him so.

But… the idea of his death, occurring at some unknown time at Camlann, so close and under such circumstances, brought another suppose. Which might ordinarily have been melancholy only – but now was fairly vicious.

What would she do if he died? His own mother had been in her family crypt less than a year, when his father accepted Vivienne's advances, and had conceived a daughter with her.

Power – the promise of it and the desire for it – seemed to bring out the worst in people. Merlin reassured him that Arthur's natural disinclination for it, his acceptance of it as a duty to bear rather than an advantage to accumulate, meant he was the right man for the throne, and a very good king. He hoped so, if his reign had been foretold, that it would be a good one. A peaceful one, though sometimes peace had to be defended, and kept.

Guinevere lifted her head and met his eyes; her expression didn't change.

Who had betrayed whom, last night? He'd said, _who else might I be wrong about_? Would he begin to suspect his men, his knights – even Merlin? Who had once remarked to him about his own father, _I think he creates enemies where none need be… _

As a younger man, he might have avoided the connection of their gazes, the hurt and the guilt it brought him, might have turned to ignore her, to give everyone the impression of officious industry. A busy man, and a king who was never wrong, and never apologized.

That attitude and suspicion that had often characterized his father's decisions. Sometimes beneficial, for a ruler, sometimes detrimental. And sometimes damnably hard to tell the difference. It was true that queens betrayed their kings, that wives betrayed their husbands – and it seemed to him, each time the man in question might claim, not my wife. And be wrong.

How could he know? He couldn't. He couldn't see the future like Merlin or Morgana. He could only choose to trust. Or not, and possibly create enemies where none need be…

His queen crossed to him, and he didn't look away, and he rather wished he could do as Merlin had with _his_ lady, and simply scoop her up. But there was this, between them.

She stopped, at arms' length.

"I don't want last night to be our last memory," she said, lifting her chin and setting her jaw – he recognized it had taken some emotional courage for her to come to him. And he admired that, even as it hurt that he had made it necessary.

"Nor I," he admitted.

"What you saw and heard and misunderstood," she said, deliberately as though she had rehearsed it, "I'm sorry, Arthur, truly. I would take it back if I could, I hate for you to ride into danger doubting me and us, and our love and –" her eyes glistened suddenly and she blurted, "Can I just – hold you a minute?"

He lifted his arms a bit, and one eyebrow. Wanting the same but – feeling a reserve. He reminded her, "You dislike that when I'm wearing armor."

She looked at him a moment longer, then stepped to him, her arms encircling his ribs almost uncomfortably tightly, her cheek pressing the metal links into his collarbone through the jacket beneath.

"I don't know if you'll believe me, but I love you and I miss you already and I can't let you leave without telling you that," she told the gold embroidered dragon on the red tunic. "I'm sorry abut last night, and I don't know why you said the things you said – it hurt and it wasn't true and I think deep down you know it – I think you treated me unfairly and then you stayed away, and if you knew how I worry when you're gone –"

He gathered her close, inhaling the scent of her hair, in a loose braid pulled over her shoulder. "I love you Guinevere, so much," he said, "so much it scares me sometimes – if you betrayed me, it would break me, I think."

"I haven't." She squeezed him fiercely, turning her face up to his. "I wouldn't – I won't."

"I'm sorry," he said. "There's been –" Oh. Damn him, if he'd been thinking straight last night, they could've talked about this then. "Listen, Guinevere, I haven't much time – we found out Morgause is with the Saxons, and she's been in contact with Morgana."

"Oh." Guinevere released him, absorbing the information. Queen and partner, and he loved her. "Does Bors know?"

Sir Bors would remain in Stawell to command the garrison; Sir Bodiver as well, to be Arthur and Merlin's communication with the outpost. "Yes, I've spoken to him already." All around him, the sky was lightening, the few men inside the gates mounting up; Merlin was already waiting astride his patient brown mare. "I think I've put a stop to it, and I don't know if Morgana thought any further than protecting her sister, but – be careful, anyway."

She nodded. "I'll tell Freya too, and Finna."

Alator, he knew, was planning to join them at Badon, with one of the later contingents, perhaps Lord Lionel's. So all three magic-users at Stawell – Bodiver, Freya, and Finna - would be aware of the possibility, however remote, of betrayal. Bodiver could alert Merlin also, if necessary.

Guinevere turned her brown eyes on him, suddenly clear. "Is that why you –"

"I shouldn't have," he interrupted. "I'm sorry." He bent for his stirrup – the turned abruptly, cupping her round cheek with his gloved hand, and kissing her. Maybe a bit roughly, but deeply. "We'll talk," he promised. "I love you."

"And I you," she said, bravely managing a smile. As he swung up on his gelding and pulled toward the open barbicon, he heard his wife speak to Merlin. "You will take care of him?"

"On my life," Merlin answered quietly, and Arthur repressed a grim shudder.

Both, or neither would return. _Join the key... Not much use separated, are you?... I'll come with you._

Pendragon and Emrys.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin's place, habitually, was half a step behind and beside Arthur. He could count on the fingers of one hand the times when he'd been in the lead.

Down the dark tunnel into Dinas Emrys in search of Kilgarrah, first. Into the cave where the Questing Beast lurked, another.

And now. Even though Arthur was barely a horse's length behind him, it counted.

Merlin sat his saddle, reins loose in his hand, sub-consciously guiding his mount, his attention divided between his mind's eye – searching out the path ahead, his knowledge of it gleaned from one of Lancelot's scouts that morning – and his sixth-sense warning of inimical magic.

Without knowing what Morgana might have told Morgause, he had to proceed on the assumption that the witch might have left surprises for her enemies, which had included them for more than a decade, anytime between her venture into the White Mountains with Cenred – and most of his men, probably – til now.

It was not the sort of thing Aithusa could scout for. Any trap that was perceptible to a flying dragon would scream warnings at Merlin himself from a mile away. And maybe the enemy hadn't anticipated discovery until they burst into Camelot past Dinas Emrys – though Kilgarrah's death could not be expected to go unnoticed – maybe they hadn't anticipated this sort of straight-north rough-terrain strike toward Mount Badon rather than a whole-group march up the road through the pass at Camlann… but maybe they had.

So he ignored the mild headache and the chill in the breeze from the few peaks yet snow-topped and the ache in his thighs and lower back from constantly leaning up or down as his mare picked her way along the invisible track, Arthur and his forty men strung out behind them.

All day they expected this to take. And while he and Arthur, at other times in their youth, had bickered and insulted each other to pass the time, today they rode in silence.

Perhaps Arthur was respecting Merlin's need to concentrate, though he hadn't found any trace of danger on their route yet, or maybe it was because he was busy and burdened with his own thoughts – the battle, his half-sister and _hers_, maybe even the prophecy. Arthur naturally resisted any hint that he wasn't the master of his own course, but news of one's own death could never be an easy thing to carry.

"Merlin," he heard from his king. "Stop here for a break."

Or possibly, he thought, as he reined in at the summit in response to his king's command, "Maybe it's because you've gotten too old to think of any new witticisms," he said aloud. No reply. "All that training, then? Knights bashing each other about the head, all that clatter of swords-on-helmets has driven all your best quips – though there weren't many – out of your head?"

Wind whistled, and voices rose faintly behind him. He turned to see Arthur some ten yards away, just turning from the pair of knights who were marking their path for the next troops departing from Stawell, staggered so any disaster might have limited casualties, and because smaller groups could move faster through the terrain.

"Or maybe I'm just talking to myself," he sighed.

"What's that, Merlin?" Arthur called.

He didn't raise his voice. "One of the first things to go, in old age, your hearing."

Dammit, he was determined Arthur would be so old he'd be deaf, when his time came. Even knowing he couldn't prevent a preordained death – it could be tomorrow, it could be fifty years from now. He sighed. Perhaps Arthur's fate was to die first… and his fate was to have to accept that.

"All clear, ahead?" Arthur asked, striding up next to Merlin's knee.

"So far." He thought, if he dismounted, he might be too stiff and sore to get back up again without difficulty. Why was it he never felt like this no matter how long he flew with Aithusa?

Arthur tore a strip of dried venison in half and handed one of the pieces up to Merlin, though he had his own rations packed on his saddle. "Is that Badon hill?"

Merlin looked where Arthur pointed, leaning forward over his mare's withers as she shifted and stamped beneath him. From this height they could see the lower rounded tops, Badon little more than an outcropping – from this distance – of a taller row of steep-backed mountains, with the faint ribbon of the road fractionally visible. "Yeah, I think so."

"And that – Camlann?" This time Arthur didn't point, but it wasn't hard to pick out the gap of the pass, sheer rocky cliff walls that would put a quarry to shame, a bit here, a bit there – it wasn't a straight shot, but bent and wound.

Merlin shivered. A helluva place for a battle. Someday.

"Something occurred to me, Merlin." Arthur tipped his face up and gave him a familiar half-grin, the mountain breeze lifting and stirring fair hair off his forehead. "If I know I'm to die _there_, then I also know I won't be killed anywhere else, isn't that so?"

Merlin hated that about prophecy and vision. The inclination to make assumptions that weren't guarantees. "Theoretically, yes," he said cautiously. "But you could be injured somewhere else and end up in Camlann somehow and then die."

"You're telling me, I won't be invincible at Badon Hill, then?" Arthur goaded him slightly.

He grimaced, wanting to return the joke, something about a king's ego, but it tangled in his throat with a rash vow to make his king, his friend, invincible anywhere, everywhere. So in the end he said nothing. _I can't promise. All ye gods at once, Arthur, I can't promise._

Arthur turned, at once youthful and mature, stern and light, king and common warrior. "Mount up, men, and push on! We've a ways to go before nightfall." He moved back to his mount, the nearest man making some jest about camp in the mountains, the dark and the cold. Arthur scoffed in response, "Haven't you ever seen Merlin's magelight?"

Merlin straightened. And as he pressed the heels of his boots to the mare's flanks to begin moving again, he noticed a flicker of motion in the sky, in the general vicinity of Badon – the white dragon, soaring the highest air currents.

_Aithusa_, he said involuntarily. Thought it wasn't wise to chat like this when he had to watch the step for all of them, literally and magically.

_I see you. You will reach Torr Badon tonight, I think._

He broke the contact without response, without offense. His white-scaled kin seemed older and sterner also. Now that he was the last of his kind.

A long history they had together. More than half of his life, and most of Aithusa's, they'd spent together. They hadn't spoken of it specifically, when the white dragon had met his master's mate – before Merlin knew such a thing was possible for him, far less that he intended a proposal of marriage to Freya – Aithusa's approval of this female for his heart-brother. When such a thing was so blatantly impossible for the dragon.

Many things were different for dragons – far more solitary than humans, by nature. Mating was probably one of them. But Merlin couldn't help but wonder if his cold-blooded friend was ever lonely or bitter about that. That he would never find a female and sire young.

It occurred to Merlin, leaning back in the saddle as the mare trundled down a steep descent into a narrow gash of a valley, perhaps this was why he and Freya had Marya, only.

Kilgarrah had fulfilled his destiny, and died at Camlann. Arthur had fulfilled his destiny – at least in part – and would die at Camlann. Perhaps soon, perhaps not.

Perhaps this would be the only battle. An epic struggle and rivers of blood shed and few left untouched on either side, forever grim and marked and shadowed by the carnage. Arthur intended to try for peace and Merlin didn't grudge him that one bit, was proud of him, rather. Bucking the cosmic signs to follow his conscience. But they would fight; it would come to it, somehow.

Perhaps, if it were a complete rout, an overwhelming victory that stopped the Saxon incursion into Albion for a hundred years or more, Aithusa's destiny would be fulfilled also, and he would follow his older kin in the glory of battle-death. A pyre of sorcerer's fire, and his bones resting for eternity where he'd slept for forty years as a hatchling.

And, what need was there for a dragonlord, without a dragon? And that was why Merlin didn't have a son. Would never have a son.

Maybe they all rode to their deaths. He and Arthur – _I'll go with you, we'll do it together._ Or flew, in Aithusa's case.

Or maybe he just needed to cheer the hell up.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…

Badon Hill, just as the last sliver of sun disappeared over the peaks to the west.

Arthur stopped walking, his feet tired and sore in his boots, his mount's head bobbing low beside him. He squinted up into the lessening light at a rounded shoulder of a taller mountain to the southeast, the lower part maybe half as high as Dinas Emrys, where he'd walked captive with Vortigern's men, and didn't know that Merlin already waited at the summit to sacrifice himself.

Now, Vortigern's son was somewhere beyond the hill, and he could see Merlin clearly at the summit of Mount Badon – that far ahead of them he'd gotten on the track – standing motionless. Watching back for them, and forward for their enemies. Arthur read in his relaxed stance that the road was clear.

A bit of relief. They'd gotten here first.

He glanced around; the track of higher certain footing dropped down a greening sward to the series of springs that made the narrow valley impractical, and the road over Badon Hill necessary. He could see the welling pools, half-hidden by rushes and other water plants – last year's brown tinged with this year's green, low to the ground.

"Here," he said, turning to face the forty knights who'd followed him. "Front lines at the top of the hill and the earthworks. Here we'll picket the horses and bring the casualties for evacuation, back to Stawell." Hopefully there wouldn't be many, not with Alator and Gilli coming. And Merlin, of course, but Arthur rather preferred him to save his strength for battle emergencies, if at all practical. "Klaudin and Wolfram, you've got the herd. You'll be relieved in six-hour rotations – and look for Sir Leon midmorning. Everyone else, the rest of the way on foot."

The top of the hill looked mottled brown and gray in the waning light, probably not much forage; Merlin's hobbled mare was already grazing placidly. Arthur left his mount as well, though probably none would even think to complain if he rode – shouldered his own pack, and led the way up the hill, a quick and steady hike.

Another quarter of an hour, nearly, and Merlin was a solid outline against the dark blue sky – and a few stars – by the time Arthur reached them, a twinge beginning to develop in the knee he'd injured, and Merlin had healed.

"They're not in sight yet," Merlin told him without preamble. "The road curves, a hundred and say twenty yards, to the north around that mountain, upwards of the springs. Aithusa says there's a plateau to the east of the road – don't worry about the dark, you can't see it from here anyway – that the main body of Saxons could reach a few hours after dawn. He offered to delay them."

Arthur made a noncommittal sound, breathing evenly as his heart-rate slowly returned to normal. Of course in the morning it would look different, but he could visualize it fairly well in deep twilight.

The springs down below on their left, to the north. Badon's head hiding stars on the right. The track had been only a few yards wide, coming up, even if it was twice that descending to the northeast, they could hold it, especially with the advantage of high ground, the Saxons having to attack upward. The curve of the track would be just beyond bow-range even for the longbowmen; there was no problem with that.

"Where is he?" Arthur asked Merlin.

"On the northern slope of that peak." He sensed Merlin point further down the passage-route that was most sensible for a thousand-man army. "They're aware of him, so he didn't want to draw attention to Torr Badon."

"Good man," Arthur said approvingly.

Beside him, Merlin shifted as if to look at him, and his voice held a note of humor. "_Man_? You insult him."

"Whatever. You know what I mean." Arthur found Merlin's shoulder and gave him a shove. "You should aspire to that insult, you big –"  
"Girl's petticoat," Merlin said at the same time. "You really ought to think of some new ones, Arthur – I sometimes think your sons are more imaginative than you in that regard."

"I am king, Merlin," Arthur said loftily, trying to keep the smile from sounding in his voice, as he felt the tension of the day ease. "Haven't got the time to sit around and come up with new insults to impress you with."

"Keep trotting out the old ones, then," Merlin said, affecting a longsuffering sigh. "I guess I'll have to make do."

"Where's Tristan's earthworks, then?" Arthur said, as the last few stragglers gained the hilltop, clumsy in the gloom.

"This way." Arthur's sleeve was taken – Merlin didn't seem to have a problem with the dark, and led the way confidently. "There's two entrances I've seen so far, toward either side of the hill – hidden of course –"

"Of course," Arthur said. Smugglers, after all.

"Half a minute, I'll give you a light where they can't see it, if the Saxons have any scouts on the heights – Aithusa thinks they have 'em, and they hide from him – watch your head – here."

Arthur ducked and stepped through what looked like a wide crack in the rock that rose above the shoulder of the hill where the track wound. And Merlin's blue magelight winked into existence, five feet ahead of the sorcerer – and behind him, as he turned to wait for Arthur.

He turned himself to see that the glow was dimly visible on the hillside – but probably not any further – and the knights and soldiers were gathering to follow.

As he followed Merlin and the light – bright but still distinctively blue. "Ay gods, Merlin."

"I know," his friend responded. "This again. Our lot in life, right? Caves and tunnels."

It was uneven footing, though more natural, he supposed, than the man-made tomb of Lother or the magic-made tunnel of Dinas Emrys. He hoped there weren't any sudden deep cracks like the cave in the forest of Balor where the morteaus flower grew.

A warren. Though it may be, they'd learn it soon enough. Niches and widenings, tiny chambers and alcoves, the floor earth and rock, up and down, the ceiling at nose-height, then soaring beyond reach.

Merlin stopped. "I think the second passage comes out down there." The blue light cast strange shadows across his angular features. "I'll have a look first thing in the morning, so we can't be surprised."

Arthur nodded, and turned to his men. "Two guards, at each entrance. Everyone else, pick a comfortable spot to eat and sleep. Tomorrow won't be as easy as today." Shuffle, rustle, and clink as they began to obey, to spread out and explore a bit, claim a section of floor for their own.

"Are you all right," Merlin asked him, when they were more or less alone again.

Arthur barked a laugh. "One more goblet of wine, why don't we have, before we change and wash and get into bed with our wives and sleep the sleep of the peaceful carefree?"

"Give it a week or so," Merlin returned. "Something to look forward to, when we get back."

"Yeah."

"Want to get out of your chainmail, at least?" the sorcerer suggested. "After the Saxons arrive, you might not want to chance it again."

Arthur grunted, then sighed, casting about him for a smooth-enough stretch of earth – then dumping his pack. "I suppose so," he said, and Merlin moved to help with the straps and buckles.

"This is why I never wear the stuff," Merlin said lightly, dropping the first piece to the side, not without care.

Arthur took a deep breath and let it out. Hoping his friend didn't have cause to regret that, when battle was joined.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was well past dawn, when Arthur emerged from the east passage of the earthworks, and Merlin was glad. He hadn't slept well, and had risen himself over an hour ago, leaving pack and bedroll neatly beside his sleeping king.

Arthur glanced over the hilltop – first, almost unconsciously toward the bend in the track to the northeast; empty, Merlin had been watching it as well – and made a noise of impatient exasperation.

"Right here," Merlin said, and grinned as Arthur spun, a bit fast.

And grimaced at him, stretching his body thoroughly in a methodical way; his jacket was open over the thin tunic underneath, and he hadn't wrestled into the chainmail again. "What," he drawled, "makes you think I was looking for you?"

Merlin shrugged, shifting in his crouch at the base of the boulder that blocked the passage from view. "Aren't you always?"

Arthur grunted. "I'll settle for breakfast. Do I have time to take some men down the hill and see that some of the tents are set up properly?"

"Yeah." Merlin squinted into the sunrise; he could only see Aithusa because he knew where to look. "It'll be a couple of hours, yet."

It was good ground, and maybe forty men could hold two thousand Saxons here for a few hours, before Leon's troops would arrive to relieve them, and maybe… he shivered a bit, with the tension of the uncertainties of approaching danger.

It wouldn't be enough simply to protect Arthur. Or to shield the forces of Camelot from Morgause's magic. They had to prevail, here. He would not retreat to Camlann, but he would be lying to claim that he wasn't afraid of what keeping that resolution would require him to do with his magic. Almost he wished he could simply pull a mountain down to bury the Saxon army.

Except that would be wrong. He couldn't explain it, otherwise. But he felt a conscience was a very unwise thing to ignore. Only in the case of Arthur's life or death.

"Maybe our luck will hold," Arthur remarked, "and Leon will get here first."

Merlin's turn to snort. "Our luck," he said sardonically.

"You coming?" Arthur tossed over his shoulder, turning toward the track. "Or are you just going to sit here brooding like a –"

"Dragon?" Merlin quickly supplied, pushing himself upright and stretching his own legs to join his friend.

"I was going to say old hen. Dragons don't brood," Arthur scoffed.

"You want to make a bet on that?" Merlin returned.

Arthur delivered the gem of logic that always concluded his arguments triumphantly. "Shut up, Merlin."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Midmorning. Arthur knelt shoulder-to-shoulder with Merlin, facing southwest as the sorcerer faced northeast. Motionless, they wouldn't stand out on the hilltop, wouldn't draw the eye to pick out the red of Arthur's tunic or the blue of Merlin's.

Some of the men were busy inside the torr, enlarging chambers to accommodate more of the men at the front line. Some were sparring at the base of the hill in a desultory manner, to keep muscles loose and warm; they could be at the summit long before the enemy, at a signal. Some were spread out on the rutted dirt track and hillside below Arthur. Simply waiting.

He straightened, leaning forward over his knee. "Leon's here," he mentioned, seeing the first horseman of the second contingent emerge from the trail they'd taken, the previous day.

"Good. I see their scouts."

Arthur balanced himself with a hand on Merlin's shoulder, turning to see. It was more of an advance party, twenty or thirty men, mounted. The risks of being first into unknown and unseen danger, paired with the privilege of a hasty retreat – to carry the warning back to the main body and its commander.

They had the advantage of surprise. The trick was knowing the optimal moment of springing the trap. Losing that advantage by revealing their presence at the moment when they'd cause the most havoc. Too soon, and the enemy could retreat to safety with minimal damage. Too late and the Saxons' own men would block retreat, probably resulting in a renewed attack of desperate necessity – the sort of thing Arthur preferred to delay provoking until he had more of his men there to defend against it.

"Will you ask Aithusa to see if he'll harass their lines, slow them down, maybe even split them up a bit," he said. "If those scouts are far enough ahead of the main body, we'll let them over the crest here, take them quick and fast with their fellows none the wiser."

Merlin turned to look back down the track toward their picket lines and base camp. "They're going to get to this point, see us, and turn tail to report back."

Arthur grunted agreement. And they were mounted; he didn't fancy asking his knights to take on men on horseback, even on two-to-one odds. All it took was one rider and horse to bolt, and the element of surprise was lost. So, how could they get the scout party to the bottom of the hill? Merlin was right, they wouldn't draw sword and charge down – especially with Leon's reinforcements joining Arthur's men as he watched.

"Can you manage some kind of concealment?" he said. "Make everything look ordinary and unsuspicious til they get to the bottom? Half our men and Leon's there, and the rest here hidden in the torr so they can't retreat."

Merlin thought a moment, squinted around them, overhead. "I can use the springs," he said. "Make a fog, or mist to hide our men. It won't be natural, obviously, but hopefully not abnormal enough to alert them – hopefully it'll look like it rose from the water and it's lingering in the lower-lying area before the sun's rays can disperse it. They'll have the noise of their own mounts to cover whatever they might hear from ours, too."

Arthur signed to the closest knight resting on the hillside. "Wolfram," he said. "Take the men on the lower half on the hill to the bottom. Merlin will provide a fog-cover, and you are to attack the Saxon scouts as soon as you're discovered. Find Sir Leon, explain the situation to him and give him the command. The men on the top half of the hill are to enter the torr and wait for myself and Merlin."

"Yes, sire," Wolfram said, and moved at a swift half-crouch to begin relaying the orders.

"As for us," Arthur added to Merlin, "Let's get off the skyline, hm?"

**A/N: Some dialogue from ep.4.5 "His Father's Son."**

**And, the Battle of Badon Hill has begun!**


	14. The First Day of Battle

**Chapter 14: The First Day of Battle**

Standing just inside the western passage of the torr – an easier word than earthworks, and a quirk of phrase Aithusa persisted in using – wedged between a rather sharp rock and Arthur's chain-mailed elbow, Merlin concentrated.

"_Bian liay sceswioc_," he spoke the spell, and mist began to rise from the springs. Gradually, to draw no immediate attention.

Then, air manipulated very lightly – quite like how he'd sculpted smoke with Morgana, _years_ ago now – to move the fog, expand without dissipating, up from the springs, across the road. Drifting thicker, gathering to obscure the knights – mounted and armed, ready and waiting – without smothering them.

A whisper sounded behind him, a message passed between the men hidden in the torr with them, from the lookout at the other entrance.

"They're at the hill," Arthur said; the only voice Merlin paid attention to. He nodded, focus crucial, now.

The knights must be completely hidden, in as natural a way as possible, to arouse no suspicion. The Saxon scouts would expect resistance at some point, and they'd already anticipated his involvement.

He wondered if they had magic-users among them, other than Morgause, the former High Priestess. She wouldn't risk riding with the forward guard, as he had been, to encounter enemy magic – even as innocuous as his fog-screen – first, herself.

The white-tinged air roiled, coalesced – a gleam of armor there, a blur of dark equine flank there – gather and spread and allow for slight natural movement and swirl. He was pleased that no one seemed averse to his magic; under Uther he'd despaired of ever being on good terms with the knights as a whole. But with Arthur as king…

He fancied he could hear the Saxons, hooves and jingling metal and guttural speech. Arthur's gloved hand grasped his elbow, trying to maneuver Merlin out of his way in the narrow space; he didn't give an inch. He was Arthur's shield, not the other way around, and Arthur couldn't force the issue without making noise.

The first Saxon rode into sight.

They were dark, hard men, wearing leather and fur, haphazard armor and carrying a range of weaponry. Mostly watching down to their right as they crested the hillside, watching the springs and the drifting mist, though some on the near side of the party looked up and around to study Badon Hill, also. They spoke and pointed, but their posture was relaxed, not alert to danger.

Beside him, Arthur was tense as the scouts began to descend the hill, leaning back in their saddles. Eager for the fight. Not because he enjoyed the fighting, necessarily – though he did enjoy the effective exercise of his uncommon skill as a swordsman – but because he had a hard time keeping still as others fought for him, as the head and symbol of their kingdom, and so their families. Arthur fought – much as Merlin did, and though it was rarely discussed, he thought they both understood the principal impulse in each other – to defend. Not to conquer. And so, his disinclination to be defended, when he was able to join the effort.

It was something Merlin both loved and hated about his friend. An instinct that it would be wrong for Merlin to deny, and yet it put Arthur so often in danger. They were alike – he hated to see Arthur put himself in harm's way; Arthur hated to see his knights do the same without himself in the forefront of it. And yet they both had to allow it, for the honor of those they loved. The honor that was part of what they loved.

_Patience, Arthur. You'll fight soon enough._

The hill leveled out beneath the Saxons' hooves, and Merlin released his magic. A stray breeze blew; the tiny droplets of mist dispersed.

Alarm was shouted. Challenge was shouted. Attack was shouted.

Knights fought Saxons.

Arthur shoved Merlin from the passage, drawing his sword and making for the road at a downward slant, cautious and quick, to block any retreat. Merlin was right on his heels, followed himself by ten or fifteen of Arthur's warriors from the torr. Not all; some would remain to guard the far bend of the track for the main body of their enemies.

The skirmish didn't last long. It didn't look to Merlin like any of the enemy scouts wanted to surrender, fighting wholeheartedly vicious, swinging their weapons and wheeling their mounts. A few of the knights were down; none were dead, though, none pulling back.

He saw Leon, recognizable by his gray-white mare, his attention drawn between two enemies, and consequentially oblivious to the third at his back with a mace. Merlin used the second – and only other, in that conflict – magic, to cause the head of the mace to fly from the handle. Into the face of Leon's opponent.

Distracted, the man fell to Leon's next blow, and the knight twisted to see where the unexpected projectile had come from. He slashed at the attacker behind him successfully, sending him flying under-hoof.

"Well done," Arthur murmured, without looking back at him.

"My lord," Merlin returned, with a bit of deliberate impudence.

The king remained on his toes, ready with his weapon, but to a man, the Saxons fought to their death. Arthur's dismounted knights on the hillside relaxed gradually, as the numbers of the enemy dwindled and none retreated back up the hill toward them.

Merlin followed as Arthur strode down the back of the hill, shoving his sword into the new bronze sheath. Leon saw them, dismounted with an inaudible order to the nearest man, dressed in the black-and-red chevron-patterned tunic of his father-in-law Lord Godwyn.

"Leon," Arthur greeted him, reaching to clasp his forearm. "Looks like you arrived just in time."

"I am thankful for that," Leon said mildly.

"No trouble in the mountains?"

"None to speak of – your trail was well-marked." Leon glanced around them. "I've set my men to disposing of the dead and gathering the extra horses."

Arthur nodded approval. "Have them get something to eat, and come to the torr – the earthworks," he said. "With their bows."

"Sire." Leon gave a half-bow and turned away, pausing to meet Merlin's eyes and say, deliberate and sincere, "Thank you, Merlin."

He smiled, only. "I'll see to the wounded, shall I?" he asked, glancing from knight to king.

"Yes, if you would." Leon also looked to Arthur for confirmation that the king didn't have another immediate need in mind for Merlin's skills. "Didn't look like anything too bad."

"Shouldn't take you too long, then," Arthur said lightly.

Merlin gave him a smile as well, beginning to lope toward the side where several men were seated, nursing injuries, and others were already beginning to help with makeshift bandages and water.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Could use a bit of shade," Arthur remarked.

"And if it was cloudy," Merlin returned, "you'd complain about the chill in the air and the lessened visibility."

"It's a soldier's right to complain about battle conditions," Arthur told him. "And a king's right, always."

"I think you've exhausted that right, long ago."

Beside Arthur, Leon shifted, and he glanced over to see the older knight's smile.

"What?" he demanded.

Leon shrugged. "I've missed you two." Merlin flashed him a grin past – and including – Arthur.

It was something of a code, by now. They exchanged insults to ease and pass time – and the men relaxed to hear the two of them bickering like children; it meant the situation wasn't dire. At least, not yet.

"They're coming," Arthur said, as the first line of foot-soldiers marched into view around the bend in the track.

He turned from their position, lying just behind the apex of the hill, onto his back, to signal his ranks of bowmen. Crossbows in the front line, kneeling. Longbows in the second row. Each to fire five arrows or bolts, conserving their stock. A fletcher was due in with Gwaine's contingent, but it was best to plan as if their current resources would be their only ones.

Then he flipped back over to concentrate – and wait – counting men, counting tiny marched steps, counting his own heartbeats. He could feel Leon's eyes on him, and Merlin's. He put out his arm behind him, and scooped air upward in one motion. Loudly and clearly he gave the order.

"_Fire_."

Footsteps scuffled. As the bowmen topped the hill, Arthur watched the Saxons rather than them; they didn't alert to the men on Badon hill til after the thrumming vibration of forty loosed bowstrings trembled on the air.

They were too far to hear the cries, but Arthur imagined he could. Some sheltered beneath shields, some by the few wagons, scrambling and shoving. Then jerking and flailing and falling as the arrows – looking like mere slivers at that distance – began to fall among them.

_ Absolutely necessary, _he told himself_. We cannot meet them on an open field and win in an even contest. We cannot trust them to be true to the terms of a champion-fought battle. And I cannot let my men and my kingdom and my allies suffer for my aversion to this sort of warfare. Do what's necessary. The fewest lives lost when it's all over. _

Confusion seemed to paralyze the enemy army. The front lines tried to push back, while the troops in the rear – behind the mountain's curve – might not yet have realized they were under attack, pushing on.

Arthur stood; no one was going to charge them. This time.

"Hold the last volley," he ordered the archers.

The crossbowmen waited patiently, their weapons resting on their knees as they knelt in front of their fellows, waiting to protect their position from a counter-assault that never came.

Arthur gave another signal, and the rest of the knights rose up behind the archers, not crowding them. After four rounds of arrows loosed, the Saxons would have discovered where they were coming from - he wanted them to see, now, the road was held, at least by this many men. And if they could make out the red tunics, so much the better. Let their commander – and Cenred and Morgause – know who they were dealing with.

They were scrambling, now, abandoning dead and wounded – and at least one wagon where a horse was down – trying to retreat to the mountain's cover.

"Loose," Arthur said stonily.

Merlin and Leon stood behind him to either side; they said nothing. They knew it needed to be done, and though it probably bothered Merlin's physician's sensitivity more, they both probably knew how he felt about it, too.

The last flight of arrows thrummed from the bows, rose lazily over the curve of the track, drifted down. Struck more men down, struck dead and dying, abandoned supplies, the track itself. The last few who were able stumbled from sight.

"Stand down," Arthur called to the gathered men. "Second company, to the torr to rest. First company, switch assignments from this morning." Those who'd been at the top of the hill would go down for food and water, help with the horses and the few injured that Merlin had already tended. "Dismissed."

The men began to disperse. Leon lifted his water-skin to drink. Merlin rested back on a thigh-high boulder. Arthur thought a moment about his request, then decided.

"Merlin," he said, "could you ask Aithusa to clear the road?"

Merlin looked at him, blue eyes somehow sharp and sad at once. Then he looked back at the road. "With fire?"

"Yes." Incinerate the bodies, destroy the supplies that had been dropped.

A moment. Then Merlin said, "He's coming."

Arthur, watching the curve where the track disappeared, was startled when the white dragon swooped out of the south, so close to another sheer mountainside that Arthur ducked in reflexive sympathy. Aithusa opened his mouth to exhale fire like whole houses suddenly aflame; Leon's hand was sudden and tight on Arthur's forearm in an instinctive reaction of his own. Skimming maybe eight feet from the ground, Aithusa's head tipped to shoot flame in front of him, then he climbed and banked sharply, back toward the hill. Arthur belatedly realized that course did make more sense than gliding down over the main body of the Saxon army on approach. The white dragon circled the mountain that hid the track, and low-flying, disappeared again among the peaks to the north.

Several small fires still burned, among the charred remains on the far track. A rising breeze stirred ash.

"For the love of Camelot," Arthur whispered.

"That will slow them down a while," Leon commented.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin sat cross-legged, maybe ten yards down the northeast track from the top of the hill, where knights and soldiers gathered – talking, eating, sparring in a loose fashion – waiting.

_He_ was waiting.

It bothered him a bit, that Morgause hadn't tried anything, yet. He hadn't seen her for ten years, since she'd been carried in a padded wagon in the company of a dozen knights and her sister, to the priestess' isle for further care, but she'd acted docile and obedient, she hadn't spoken or done magic.

A handful of times over the years, when Morgana and Arthur met after a time apart, one would ask or the other would mention, a quick update on the witch's condition. The priestesses kept in contact with their former leader's sister and the saver of her life with magic, rather than the new king of Camelot, whose sorcerer was responsible for her condition, whose father had been defeated – at least mentally and emotionally – by her machinations. Arthur was on good terms with Alice, the current High Priestess, but there was next to no communication between them. And so, the unawareness that Morgause had left the island.

What was she capable of? Mentally, or magically? Did she truly simply follow where she was led, and do as she was directed, these days, or was she able to manipulate and scheme?

He would have expected her to try something. To decisively crush resistance, brush them out of the way of the army she'd allied with. To test his defenses, at least.

But there had been nothing. Which only served to deepen his concern – which was maybe what she wanted.

"Sire." He heard Leon's voice behind him. "They're coming again."

Merlin blinked and focused on the bend in the road. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty Saxons came on foot, at a quick trot. All in black, and each carried a shield – though he couldn't make out a sigil at that distance, if there was one.

"Those are fighters," Arthur observed, his voice quiet and calm, audible because the rest of the men had fallen silent. "Look at the way they move – fast so they're a harder target for our archers, but controlled so they have the stamina to travel the distance and fight when they get here."

For a moment they all watched the unit come at a fast jog, down the track – Merlin seated on the hill, Arthur and Leon above. No others followed the group of Saxons, though.

"Volunteers from among their elite," Leon guessed. "They're feeling us out… Your orders, sire?"

Arthur made a noise of deliberation. "What do you think, Leon, give the archers a rest? See how these Saxons fight after a run like that?"

Merlin, with his back to the king, rolled his eyes. Yes, it made good tactical sense, but he was completely sure that Arthur would be swinging his sword in the thick of it, too. That was Arthur's mood: impatience, eagerness to win an end to the fighting, maybe some justified resentment that the Saxons had chosen to make this defense necessary.

"Yes, my lord." Leon's voice rose to a commanding shout to gather the men on the hilltop, and when Arthur spoke again, it was over the shuffle of boots and bodies, the jingle of armor and swords unsheathing.

"Form up here. Wait til they're just over halfway up, then rush them – our downward momentum will be in our favor… Merlin, can you watch that they don't try to sneak a unit of archers around that bend while the knights are exposed on the hillside."

He nodded so Arthur could see him do it, watching the unit of Saxon fighters get closer.

"Can you do it from up here?" Arthur added, a note of sarcasm entering his voice. "You're really in the way there."

"Yes, my lord," Merlin agreed easily. But didn't move.

"Now?" More sharply.

Merlin smiled as he stood and turned, the Saxons at the foot of the hill. "You're not worried about me, are you?"

"Of course not," Arthur returned, teeth gleaming in the gold of his beard as he grinned. "I didn't want Leon tripping over you."

Merlin glanced at the knight, who shrugged in mild amusement; the former scout never tripped over anything.

"Besides," Arthur said, as Merlin reached and passed him. "You're not wearing armor." He spun his sword at his side to ready and settle himself for the fight charging up at them.

"Don't need it," Merlin returned. "And it makes everyone look a bit ridiculous, anyway."

"Trust me, Merlin," Arthur threw over his shoulder, lowering his stance and raising his sword in preparation, "you don't need any help with that!"

Merlin let him have the last word. Arthur was rushing down toward battle, anyway, he deserved to feel triumphant. It might even help.

He divided his attention between his king and the far bend of the track – which remained empty. Even with the enchanted scabbard and the promise of Camlann, he didn't want to see Arthur wounded.

But the troop of Saxons – maybe their best and maybe entirely expendable – were outnumbered by half again as many, tired from the fast journey over the hundred-plus yards of track, and struggling uphill as the warriors of Camelot thundered down on them. Merlin didn't need his magic at all, to defend Arthur.

Though he couldn't protect everyone, he did what he could to save lives among the others. It was understood that they fought without the expectation of Merlin's rescue, but not one would mind an unexpected miracle. He watched for those moments of unseen attacks or unavoidable killing blows to catch his attention, for intervention with magic – and Arthur always a priority, as he was for all of his men. Merlin was fairly confident none of their men would die this time, either, though a few might require spell-work rather than stitches, when the physician in him would be needed, again.

Someone said beside him, "You didn't wait for me."

His grin was sudden and wide, though he didn't take his eyes from Arthur. "Well, we asked them nicely not to attack until you got here, but when they heard Sir Gwaine of the Round Table was coming, they were in a hurry to defeat us before you could arrive."

"To save all your asses single-handedly," his brother-in-law said breezily.

"You had a good journey?" he said absently, following the swordplay on the hill below them – glancing up to see that the track continued empty.

"Decent. Arthur looks good."

"He is. Don't say that to him, though."

"I'm not stupid, Merlin – why do you think I'm saying it to you?"

Merlin hummed noncommittally. "You'll get your turn, Gwaine. This is far from over, I'm afraid."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"_Arthur_," Leon said.

He and Gwaine both turned immediately from a lightly-sarcastic discussion of the knight's twelve-hour journey from Stawell to Badon, watching the activity at the base of the hill. Merlin and his druid friend moved among the dozen-or-so injured fighters, while others erected a few more tents for their comforts, and still others tended the horses. It looked to Arthur as though dinner preparations by the cooks' tent were already underway, though it was just past midafternoon. He saw Merlin begin to turn at the call, also.

Arthur took the five steps back to the brow of the hill, Gwaine just beside him.

"They're coming again," Leon added, unnecessarily.

And more of them. Twenty – forty – eighty this time, maybe. And though they still carried shields at the ready for Camelot's arrows, they moved deliberately and methodically. Slow march.

If the last group had been sent to test them – strength and resolve and defensive capabilities, this was the company meant to defeat them. Only, they didn't know that Arthur's number had increased by half. And Percival might just make it within the hour.

"They're taking their time," Gwaine observed, and gave Arthur a devilish grin. "Permission to ride down and issue an invitation?"

"Send a flight of arrows among them," Leon suggested, "that'll hurry them along."

"Gwaine, get your archers in place, here on the hilltop," Arthur said. "Leon, your crossbowmen in three tiers, but here to the side." He waited as his two knights bellowed a string of orders each, watching the longer thicker column move forward with an inexorable slowness that made his heart pump and his gloved hand grip his hilt. Holding anticipation in check until he could _move_.

"Ready, Arthur," Leon said, over the noise of the assembling troops.

"Merlin's coming," Gwaine added.

Arthur nodded. Whatever the Saxon commander planned, whatever the witch intended, he thought it a fairly sure thing that they could neither defend nor defeat here successfully without Merlin to combat the magic that would eventually be used against them – why else would Cenred and Morgause be accepted by the invaders? And no one else would see it coming.

"Longbowmen pick individual marks. Four rounds of arrows, fire at will on my mark – then shift aside for the knights' formations," he said. "Crossbowmen wait til the enemy is in closer range, and do the same. We'll charge downhill as before to take the rest of them."

Gwaine's, "Understood," overlapped Leon's, "Yes, my lord."

Arthur watched, estimated. The number of archers multiplied by the number of arrows – the time necessary to nock-aim-loose… then the same calculations for the crossbowmen as the rest came up the hill, tripping over the fallen. He noticed a handful of others just at the bend, moving furtively out to scavenge among the burnt remains of the previous skirmish, he assumed.

"Now," he said, clear and firm.

Again the air quivered with the twang of loosened bowstrings. Not with the even cadence as before, but a steadier random thrum. He followed the first of the arrows, arcing toward their shielded targets – and realized that he'd mistaken the half-a-dozen scroungers.

More had joined them – twenty-five, thirty now – archers also.

And a flight of arrows soaring toward the hill top.

It was good strategy, part of his mind noted. To disrupt their defenses and their archers, defend the men approaching to attack the hill while making the attack easier, on troops injured and disordered. He had another half-instant to remember training for a particular tournament, tossing a scatter of splinters at his dozing sorcerer.

Then Arthur bellowed, "_Incoming_!"

Most ducked, making themselves small. Without shields, they could only wait and hope – he'd have to order his archers to focus on the enemy at the bend, leaving those on the track free to approach much closer unhindered.

Merlin appeared at Arthur's side, hands and fingers outstretched.

And the arrows halted, as if they'd struck into a great invisible archery butt, just over the heads of the men.

No one moved, no one spoke – more than one swiftly-inhaled breath -

A second flight came in, the hiss and puff of sharpened heads on thickened air audible in the eerie stillness. There was shade even, now, on the track and hill, from the cloud of arrows motionless in the air.

Then Merlin twisted sideways, one hand moving in a sweep-and-clutch gesture. The arrows cleared and gathered, into haphazard bundles on the ground behind the crossbowmen.

"Damn," Gwaine uttered, for all of them. The archers had more arrows now, also.

"Have them keep shooting," Merlin said to Arthur without looking at him, his voice breathless, his whole body heaving from the exertion of his sprint up the hill.

"_Loose_!" Arthur roared. "Everything you've got, and make it count! The north ten, aim for the enemy archers!"

A third flight came clattering overhead; Merlin caught and gathered them as well. And if he missed a few in the confusion of incoming and outgoing projectiles, if his hands trembled and his hair moistened at the temples with sweat – well, that was war.

Arthur put one hand lightly on his friend's shoulder, to notify without distracting the sorcerer. Gleam of gold as Merlin glanced to nod acknowledgement, and Arthur strode to take his place in the front line of knights, baring his dragonsword and readying for his second downhill charge of the day.

More of them coming, this time. And Merlin's attention taken in the long-range defense. But he had more men also; Leon on his left and Gwaine on his right. Almost, he smiled.

Arthur spun his sword in a calming arc at his side, and bounced up onto the toes of his boots as the enemy came struggling up the hillside – some jerking and twisting and falling with crossbow bolts in their bodies.

Opening his mouth, he roared their battle cry. "For the love of Camelot!"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Three.

Knights of Camelot dead upon the hillside, instantly as they were struck, or so nearly that it made no difference.

Two more died as they were carried from the hilltop to the camp at the base, and those men Merlin felt responsible for, though their comrades had judged them safe enough to wait for physician's attention as he and Gilli moved from man to man.

"And how many did you save with magic or medicine?" Merlin straightened to find himself nose to nose with the king in one of the small dim hospital tents. "I know you, Merlin, you can't blame yourself."

"They knew what might happen, and they came anyway?" Merlin suggested softly. He wiped his face on his forearm, because his hands were dirty – or clean – and he couldn't use them for himself, anyway.

"Come out of here," Arthur said, turning his hold on Merlin's shoulder into an insistent tug. "Get some fresher air."

Gilli looked up and caught Merlin's eye, and nodded his emphatic agreement with the king's proposal.

The air did prove bracing, though it still bothered him that, even with Gilli's second pair of hands, magic and medicine both had to be basic and rude. And maybe if more of them blamed him for his shortcomings, he wouldn't blame himself.

_Never believe that any man's decision to kill or spare brings any blame to you._ The memory of Kilgarrah's words steadied him, as Arthur's hand did.

"Here, this ought to cheer you up," Arthur added, pushing him to turn toward the southwest – as a new rider emerged on the track from their improvised trail from Stawell.

His size an unmistakable indication of his identity. Percival was here, with another forty men, bringing their total over a hundred, now.

Merlin breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. However little sense it made, the fewer men there were, the more responsible he felt – with increasing numbers, that feeling slipped under the reality that they could and would care for each other.

"Arthur!" Gwaine called, and they turned to see the knight skid to the bottom of the hill and jog to them. Five yards away, a grin split his dark-bearded face, and he called again, "Hey, Percival!"

The big knight dismounted to join them, weariness and a grin of his own on his square-jawed face. "Sire," he said, taking the hand Arthur offered in greeting.

"You made good time," Arthur said.

"Just in time to rest for the night," Merlin suggested, and Percival's grin widened.

"Not quite, maybe," Gwaine said. "There's a single rider approaching with a white flag – it could be a ruse but Leon says it might be a request for a truce meeting; in any case, you should come."

Arthur glanced at Merlin, who shrugged off his fatigue, drawing the level of magic almost forcibly up to what he normally felt. And nodded. "Let's go."

"Your men can take the first shift for dinner," Arthur said to Percival, "but for now I'd like them to rest in the torr, to relieve some of the others."

As Arthur headed for the hill, and Merlin followed, he heard Percival ask about Gwaine's trip and arrival. Gwaine described the earlier skirmish, and repeated his comment about the Saxons trying to win before he could fight – Percival responded with a calm observation about how _his_ arrival precipitated a truce, and Gwaine laughed.

"Even if it's doomed to failure," the king remarked to Merlin over his shoulder as they began to climb, "it's not a bad idea to get the measure of the man we're up against, and delay maybe until more men come – Lancelot should be here before dark."

"And if it is a ruse?" Merlin asked.

"That's why I'll be bringing you."

**A/N: Mist spell from ep.2.3 "The Nightmare Begins".**


	15. Action and Consequence

**Chapter 15: Action and Consequence**

In the end, Arthur and Merlin went alone.

For so long Merlin's place at Arthur's side had been assumed, his decision hadn't even been mentioned, even by him. If Arthur went, he would go. If Arthur stayed, yet asked him to go, he would go.

It was Arthur's determination to go that had his knights protesting. Not that they could stop him, or change his mind – but they each requested the privilege of accompanying him, and, failing that, how many men to send in their stead.

The problem was, if it was a ruse. Arthur knew nothing of the Saxon idea of honor, whether it would be perfectly acceptable to them to lure an enemy commander under false assurances, to remove him the more easily from their path, or hold him hostage against the surrender of his troops.

Or, if Morgause might choose to use the opportunity for her own purposes.

Therefore, the protection of the truce party, whoever its extra members, rested ultimately with Merlin. Who didn't appear concerned, as he watched and listened silently to the swift, intense argument on the hilltop. Arthur remembered now how the sorcerer had once seized him to bring him forcibly to safety, from the citadel of Camelot to their companions in a crypt-cave; he knew Merlin wouldn't think twice before doing the same, again, if he felt the need.

But he also remembered how Merlin had reacted after doing the same magic with Guinevere, Freya, Isolde – and the last of the knights of Medhir. The more men who accompanied them, the harder Merlin's responsibility.

"Take a torch," Leon said finally, as Arthur had teetered on the verge of losing his temper and issuing orders to his friends and trusted captains as if they were the dullest of new recruits. And the sun _was_ sliding just past the western edge of mountain. "That way we can at least track your progress visually."

"We don't need a torch," Merlin said calmly, unfolding his arms and striding forward. He held out his hand and a ball of fire – very like his magelight, only orange-red, the perfect orb married by flickering tongues of flame at the top – burst into existence an inch above his palm. Reflecting and reproducing the golden flash of the sorcerer's blue eyes with an almost eerie effect of sustained magic.

Not as personal as the blue magelight. And, more than a bit intimidating.

Arthur approved. It was a move like clearing one's cloak away from the sword hilt and revealing the armor. Not overtly aggressive, but not temptingly unassuming. Gwaine had once said, _Sometimes violence can be prevented, by a show of force_. Do not underestimate.

"Don't throw that at anyone," Gwaine said to him.

Merlin gave his roguish brother a _look_, and it was not one of offended innocence.

"At least, not without extreme provocation," Arthur amended for them. "Where's Aithusa?"

"Already aloft," Merlin answered, and all three knights leaned back to search the sky. "He's high; we won't see or hear him, but he'll be watching, too."

Leon and Percival looked relieved, Gwaine somewhat disappointed. Merlin, a bit grim.

Arthur thought he understood that, too. Things would have to get very bad before that was an option – though the Saxons would suffer heavy casualties, the likelihood that they'd succeed in bringing Aithusa down was good. If _he_ had to lead an army against an enemy with a dragon, he'd have sharp-eyed scouts surrounding them at all times to give warning of the creature, and all his men prepared all the time to defend – to fight the fires and the dragon itself on a moment's notice.

Merlin would not call the last dragon into the Saxon camp unless his life appeared already lost – leaving Arthur undefended and Aithusa without a lord to obey.

"Leon, the command is yours." He turned to stride down the hill, adding to Merlin, "All right, let's go."

Following, Merlin said, "Descend into the flaming hell…"

"Shut up," Arthur told him. Mostly joking.

The messenger, one of Cenred's men, led them down the hill, though both of them more or less ignored him; probably he would be quizzed later on what they'd said and done, within his sight and hearing, and it betrayed a sense of uncertainty and desperation, to question him. And to assume his honesty, naiveté.

Arthur trusted the judgment of his own senses more, anyway; Merlin probably did as well, though his silence spoke more of concentration and maybe a hint of darker antipathy toward the natives who'd betrayed their countrymen, even at the order of their leader. And toward the commander and army who'd made this invasion personal to the former druid and current dragonlord.

He looked back once, to see that he'd judged the point in the track where they would pass out of sight from Badon Hill almost precisely. Lancelot's forty men should be added to their number, by the time they returned; he determined to do them both the favor of pretending their last night in Stawell had never occurred – they didn't need even a hint of awkwardness or mistrust between them, here and now.

Merlin didn't pause, stepping ahead of Arthur now toward the plateau he'd mentioned upon their arrival, to the east of the track but fairly level with it, though itself comprised of small hills and valleys. Less a flat plain and more a small-scale version of the mountains surrounding.

There was an open-sided tent erected maybe twenty yards from the rest of the camp, in the middle of the track, clearly the location of this meeting. Hide, not canvas, Arthur thought, as they approached, and well-lit by a stand of candles toward the rear. Occupied by several men, already.

Arthur's hand rested on the hilt of the dragonsword, and he didn't even bother to hide the fact as he and Merlin slowed their determined march to a cautious saunter. He was aware that many of the Saxons within view had halted their activities to stare. He didn't see the blonde witch anywhere.

Two men were conversing in the center of the tent, behind a rough table, short and narrow, which held two swords, both longer and wider than Arthur's own. A third man stood further to the rear of the tent, with his back to the other two, looking out toward the camp.

Arthur knew the commander immediately, though there was no outward indication of rank or authority on their clothing – dark-stained leather and coarse fur and hard iron to supplement their armor. As tall as Percival and as broad, gray liberal in hair the yellow-brown of summer weeds that hung lankly to his shoulders, unshaven with two great moustaches that grew down the sides of his mouth and chin to droop toward his chest like a fall of moss over swamp-tree lips. He stood with his chin down, but his eyes were bright and crafty – Arthur was sure that he and Merlin had been noted the moment they came into view, and the illusion of ignorance was deliberately feigned.

Merlin held the illuminating ball of fire as he glanced around the tent's interior – gaze lingering on the man in the corner – then dropped his hand and the fire vanished into a twist of smokeless air.

The messenger who was their guide stepped to the end of the table beyond Merlin. "My lord Orso, commander of the _Micel Here_."

"Orso," Arthur said into the moment of silence that followed, leaving off any title or term of respect though he spoke to the big man himself. "I am Arthur Pendragon of Camelot."

The Saxon's eyes glittered as they passed over him – the red tunic embroidered with his father's gold dragon, the neat strong chainmail beneath, the bronze scabbard and generations-old hilt of his sword. Then, looked at Merlin. Not his clothes, which were plain though sturdy and well-made – but at his face, at his eyes. Arthur didn't have to, he knew the expression of flat implacable determination the sorcerer would be wearing.

Then Orso spoke, and though it seemed to Arthur that he should be able to understand the older man, he couldn't make the sounds take familiar shape. He wondered if Merlin, for all his studying of druid dialects and the Old Language, could find meaning.

The messenger, who seemed to be acting interpreter also, began, "His lordship says –"

And Merlin answered Orso to his face, in the same familiar-sounding language, exactly as he'd spoken to Caerleon and Odin – with respect but without submissiveness. The commander merely looked at him; the second Saxon attendant's expression was shrewd and alert.

"Merlin?" Arthur said into the silence, letting his tone hint at sarcastic tolerance.

"I am informed that Morgause waits to squash us like bugs if I try anything," Merlin informed him calmly.

"And you said?"

"I am well aware there may be consequences to my actions," the sorcerer answered mildly.

Arthur almost smiled.

Then Orso spoke again, and the translator – with an uneasy glance at Merlin – told them, "His lordship thanks you for coming to speak with him and invites you to place your weapon on the table, as he has done, as a show of good faith and to preserve the peace of the truce."

Arthur spoke evenly, and carefully. "I can have no confidence in the good faith of a man who would attack innocents unaware, or come to claim a land by force from its rightful and peaceable inhabitants. However, since it is my intention to observe the terms of truce, and peace is always my ultimate objective…"

As the translator began to relay his words, Arthur drew his sword slowly, with his left hand, thumb up on the hilt to allay suspicion, and laid it on the table next to the other two.

The big commander spoke again, his manner quite mild, his voice low and even, if gravelly. The spokesman said, leaning away from the table, "His lordship says, twice you have attacked his men from your position on the hill without provocation, and he is missing twenty-six scouts who preceded his company."

"Tell him," Arthur said, not glancing at the man, or addressing that phrase _without provocation_, "that they died bravely."

"With swords in their hands," Merlin added; he'd taken a step back toward the corner of the open tent opposite the third man with the Saxons, to see all of them, and outside the tent as well. His hands were open and relaxed by his sides. "Unlike the druid children cursed by the witch's plague."

Over the translator's murmur, the third man tossed over his shoulder, "One druid brat or twelve, what's the difference?"

The voice wasn't familiar. Orso didn't protest the interruption by word or look, but Merlin stiffened. And maybe at more than the callousness of the comment.

"Excuse me," Arthur said, with no apology in his tone whatsoever, and maybe more than a bit of justifiable kingly arrogance, "we haven't been introduced."

The man turned. He looked not unlike Gwaine – long hair and scruffy beard, hair dark as his eyes – but where Arthur's knight was lively and open, head high and the gleam of merriment rarely absent, this man kept his head low, the gleam almost feral. Maniacally predatory and secretive, and it came to Arthur that he _had_ seen him before.

"But then, you're a druid brat yourself, aren't you," the man, maybe a decade older than Arthur, drawled at Merlin.

"Cenred," Merlin said, and Arthur couldn't remember when he'd heard his friend sound so _hard_. It was fine, though, he felt the same way.

"Tell your sister I said hello, and thanks for the information she provided," Cenred said mockingly to Arthur. "Oh – that's if you ever see her again."

Arthur decided he was done with the niceties, enough time had been delayed. It was too dark to begin fighting on any major scale anymore; Lancelot should have arrived at the hill, and he expected Lord Lionel in the morning, followed by another three contingents through the day.

"You have had," Arthur said, "many opportunities, for many years, to insult me to my face, and you have never dared so much as show your own. It is not you I came to speak with." He shifted to place the other beyond his range of vision, knowing Merlin would keep an eye on the traitor, addressing Orso. "If you brought me here to silence this cur for you, I'm happy to do so, but let us be plain about it, at least."

"Why you filthy –" Cenred snarled – then swallowed whatever word might have come next, at the commander's raised hand.

Orso spoke again, briefly. The translator, tense and unhappy, muttered, "His lordship asks what it would take for you to move your men off the hill and out of his way–" a pause while Orso spoke again, the mild manner thinning to show the steel of a ruthless warrior – "he will crush you all, but he'd rather not waste the time or resources at this point in his venture unless he has no alternative."

Another pause. Another string of almost-comprehensible speech. The subtle threat of the commander's manner slid toward bored condescension.

"He is willing to negotiate a portion of land and title both for you to retain, safety for your people as long as they submit peacefully to the rule of the _Micel Here_."

Arthur inhaled, slowly and deeply, let it out again. Well, they'd known from the beginning that negotiations would be unsuccessful, hadn't they?

"You will not pass," he said, holding the older man's crafty gaze. "You will waste the lives of your men in vain. I will hold the kingdom my father fought to build, and those of my allies as well, and never will we submit to foreign rule. These are my terms." He shifted his weight, leaning his knuckles on the table. "Your men will retreat from these mountains, board their ships at the coast and depart our lands forever. The white dragon will assure us this condition has been met."

He paused to let the translator speak, pale now and stumbling over his words. Orso glanced sharply at Arthur.

"As for you, you will surrender yourself to our justice, along with the witch Morgause and the son of Vortigern, stand trial for your crimes, and face execution."

The interpreter swallowed. Twice. Then conveyed Arthur's words in a faint stammer. Arthur could not tell that Orso understood a single one of them, from his inscrutable expression, but his attendant inhaled sharply, bristling.

The commander spoke, a single sentence – a question, by the rising inflection.

Before the interpreter could open his mouth, Merlin answered. And his eyes flared gold.

Orso took half a step back, shaken from his absolute confidence into a slow, cold fury. No one else spoke. And Arthur could not tell what Merlin had done with his magic, or whether Morgause had reacted at all.

Merlin reached for Arthur's sword, and in handing it to him, signaled him to leave the tent. Arthur took the sword and slid it into the bronze scabbard; he had no reservation about fearlessly turning his back on his enemy to begin the long trek back to Badon; Merlin backed to follow him more slowly, ensuring that the Saxons would not break the agreement of temporary peace.

Once they were ten paces away, Merlin relit his hand-held flame. And at thirty the sorcerer turned, and Arthur increased the pace.

"Care to tell me what he asked, there at the end," Arthur said conversationally, "and what you told him?"

It was a moment before Merlin answered. "He wanted to know, why did you think you could make good on your boast."

"What did you say?" Arthur repeated, when Merlin seemed disinclined to continue. Then made an impatient sound when his friend still didn't answer. "All right, then, what did you _do_?"

This time, a glance that was not without mischief, a satisfied quirk of his lips beneath the short dark beard that Arthur was still getting used to seeing on Merlin's face. "I lit one of the candles on the stand behind Cenred and Orso, that had gone out."

Arthur stopped walking. "You did what? What the hell good does that do?"

"Well…" Definitely the glimmer of a grin. "He didn't know what I did, either, only that it was something, and he can go as crazy as he likes trying to figure out what, and every little thing that goes wrong the rest of the night will make him wonder, and it wasn't enough for Morgause to even notice so she won't be able to tell them anything…"

Arthur laughed. Shouted with laughter, and didn't care if the Saxons or his own knights heard him. And the tension of fighting, of wondering and half-hoping the truce talks might profit something – shrugged right off him.

"Maybe we're all destined and damned and living our last hours," he said, "but I'm glad to be here with you, Merlin."

"If it's all the same to you, sire," Merlin answered, "I'd rather be with you in Camelot."

"Soon," Arthur promised him, yanking him forward on the track, toward the flickering lights of the hilltop where their friends and comrades waited. "Soon, Merlin."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin lay on the hard earth floor of the torr, on his side with his head pillowed on his bent arm.

He preferred a forest floor to a cave, in spite of the increased risks and decreased security. He preferred the movement of air and the idea that his senses could stretch out and expand, and not be closed in by the earth. He listened to Arthur breathing in the dim next to him.

How many times in his life, he wondered, had he done this? How many patrols, trips, quests, had Arthur snored while Merlin lay wakeful because of the unsettled state of his magic?

How many more times, before their separation was made permanent by death?

_We're not at Camlann_, he reminded himself.

But, very close.

_The prophecy, _Freya had said to him, the last night they were in Camelot_, might not be given to you to prevent. Maybe it's a warning, maybe you have to choose and fight and so on, even knowing what might happen – and then the conclusion might turn out differently than you expect…_

He could still feel the weight of his king's chainmail-clad arm over his shoulders like they were boys again, _I'm glad to be here with you, Merlin_.

It occurred to him to wonder how Arthur might have reacted to a prophecy of Merlin's death. Refuse to believe, fight determinedly against the conditions, order and plead with him to stay away. And yet, if he could save Arthur and Camelot, all of Albion, he'd go to his own death willingly.

As Arthur would. Aithusa had said, _as we all will do, when it is required_.

With a few reservations, regrets for his family, for his work left unfinished… but still.

As Arthur would. Merlin knew how he'd feel, at the moment of his king's death, and ever after. As if the light of the sun had gone out.

Freya and love and family, to comfort and fill his heart. And his purpose reverting to Prince Lucan, especially, to protect, in all aspects of his life, as well as the queen his friend, and Brian the budding magic-user and little Princess Bethan. But, he would never be whole, again.

_ Both _had_ become the chosen one…_

He wondered, uncomfortably, if Arthur felt the same way. It felt a bit presumptuous to him, that a _king_ would need him, even though Freya and Gwen and others seemed to accept the idea as a matter of course.

In that case, might it not be selfish of him to hope that he gave his life first, in defending Arthur's, in delaying the Catha prophecy's fulfillment? To leave Arthur that searing emptiness in avoiding it himself?

Or would it be another sacrifice of sorts, to accept that he couldn't prevent Camlann, ultimately. To give his magic, to serve and work, as long as he had his king – and then a bit longer? To accustom himself to the thought that the searing emptiness was his burden to carry, not Arthur's, so they could someday walk that slate-hard pass together, and Arthur's death would be unmarred by Merlin's desperation and guilt?

_ I know you Merlin; you can't blame yourself._

He resolved to try, at least. To avoid Camlann if at all possible, but to accept that someday they would stand there, and know that now is the time. Tomorrow, or fifty years from now. To release that illusion of control the power of his magic sometimes laid over him like a wet blanket smothering his soul. To focus on what he _could_ control.

Noise intruded into the little torr-alcove Arthur had sarcastically named the royal bedchamber. Torchlight flickered in the passageway, low voice, scuffling boots. The last guard-shift, maybe.

Merlin did not try to go back to sleep. His dreams had been tangles of firelit strands of men, invading the darkness of the mountains like rivulets of molten metal, seeking to level, to discover another path beside the track that was dammed by crimson-clad knights. More than once Merlin had been forced from his rest by the conviction that alerting Arthur was essential, and the unconscious attempt to succeed in that warning.

_Aithusa_, he tried, and though his kin did not respond verbally, he felt the dragon's attention and receptiveness. _How goes the night?_

_ The enemy has rested little, on the whole_. Merlin saw the encampment on the plateau as Aithusa saw it, an eagles'-eye – or dragons'-eye, rather – view reminding him of nothing so much as a kicked anthill. Which gradually resolved into an intentional order, in Merlin's human mind.

_They've been sending out these small parties all night?_ Merlin asked, rolling to his back but keeping his eyes shut, superimposing the aerial map of the land onto the roof of the earthworks above him. Not just hunting or fetching water, or even fortifying their position with gathered or quarried stone.

_ There have been many._

An audible human voice interrupted. "My lords? First light."

"Thank you," Merlin said aloud. _Aithusa? Come to Badon, if and when you can?_

_ As my lord commands._ No lightness whatsoever, but a battle-ready intensity.

"Arthur." He turned to his side to see the king-shaped lump on the floor beside him in the dim light. A bit of a joke – _light of sun _– "Rise and shine."

The king grunted; Merlin didn't envy him having to sleep on the ground dressed in a dozen pounds of cold hard metal. "You first."

He took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and blue magelight blazed against the back of his eyelids. He felt Arthur's arm slapping the ground between them, trying to reach him, and shifted away with a grin to himself.

"Merlin!" Arthur growled. "Hells, you're aggravating! And you didn't rise, first!"

"I'm on my way," he said, rolling to push himself to his feet by degrees.

"And extinguish that thing, will you," Arthur demanded, rattling in his armor as he did the same. "You've ruined my night vision."

"It's first light anyway," Merlin told him, shrugging back into the jacket that he'd used as a second blanket during the night. "Arthur… I think I'm going up with Aithusa today."

Arthur didn't look at him as he passed his swordbelt around his tunic at his waist, buckled and settled it. "Any particular reason I should know about?"

"I think… Orso might be trying to find a way here without using the track, or maybe even to go around us altogether."

"Trying to flank us." Arthur nodded, and ducked out from the alcove to the main passage of the torr. A knight waited just out of sight with a packet of provisions, which he handed to Merlin as Arthur passed without seeming to notice.

Merlin followed him toward the pale gray promise of dawn outside, juggling flat bread and dried meat for both of them, trying not to drop the string of the water-skin. "I've got wards on the hill itself, that'll hold another two days, and there's one that's linked temporarily to your knife, that'll stop any arrows or spears, like when Odin sent that assassin Myror, and I'll be able to sense from the air anything serious that she tries–"

Arthur threw him a look over his shoulder, something like exasperated impatience, as they left the torr for the open air.

"What?" Merlin said, handing Arthur his portion of breakfast.

"You."

"What?" he said again, uncomprehending, beginning to wolf down the flatbread.

"Just… nothing. We'll be fine." Arthur tore into his own section of bread. "I'll be fine – this is Badon, not Camlann." He gave Merlin a boyish grin. "Lancelot's here now, and we'll have Lord Lionel and the sixth contingent midmorning. Reinforcements at noon and midafternoon. If the Saxons dare attack again."

"They will," Merlin said softly.

Arthur nodded, arrogance draining, and repeated, "They will. If we need you down here for anything, we'll light a signal or something."

"I'll watch for it," Merlin agreed.

Aithusa was audible before he was visible, a minor pressure on the inner ear, _whump. Whump_. Then faster as he came to light on the hilltop, just down the northeast track – _whumpwhumpwhump_.

"Merlin," Arthur said, half-serious. "Don't do anything stupid."

He grinned over his shoulder as he loped toward the dragon, dirty-pearl in the pre-dawn gloom. "Me?"

It had been a long time since he and Aithusa had flown together, Merlin thought, as they both braced themselves for the effort necessary in taking off and gaining the skies. He quickly abandoned the attempt to remember, to calculate, as Badon fell away beneath them.

_ Let's go high, first._

Aithusa's great leather-sail wings scooped at the air as they rose. The loose edges of Merlin's clothing flapped coldly around his body, air buffeted his ears, and his eyes streamed, but he kept his place with one hand negligently on one of the scaly spikes on the back of the dragon's skull.

Every time, he loved it. The absolute freedom of the vast open space, the weightlessness of body and soul, so far removed from everything tangible.

They were in the sunlight, now, while the valleys and breaks between peaks were still in morning shadow. The area looked a bit more like Arthur's maps from the air – the track and route best for an army not difficult to trace – and he forced himself to study Camlann in particular. It was deserted, though other harder, narrower passages still seemed possible.

It wasn't an easy search, for many reasons.

Aithusa didn't think like a man, to remember and follow those scouting parties, paths and directions; he didn't look down at the mountains' folds and crevasses to note where a man might make his way, a tenth the size of a dragon and restricted to the earth.

Constant forward movement was necessary, to keep them aloft; they had to circle or loop to over-fly the same terrain several times, before Merlin was satisfied.

And, they were highly visible to all on the ground, the Saxons long wary of the white dragon's presence. Those on the ground could guess at their task, could hide, might attack unexpectedly.

There. And, there.

Twice they landed to examine signs of recent human passage attempted. Twice Merlin satisfied caution with a small careful use of his earth-shaking spell – block a narrow opening in one place, open up another chasm in the second. He wasn't really concerned about the Saxons who might be ranging the mountainsides on this undertaking of theirs, whether they were killed or cut off or returned to the main body safely; they were too few to harm Camelot's forces even if they succeeded in finding either flank or the rear.

And half a dozen more times, he aimed spell-work from the air, without the proof that a particular possibility had been discovered. Just to be sure.

_Your water supply, Merlin?_ Aithusa suggested.

_ Those springs, there. They haven't got access to tamper with it, except if they expose themselves on the track, and the treacherous footing makes it illogical as an alternative route to the track. Even so, I told Gilli to tell Alator, whenever he arrives this morning, to be wary for any tricks they might try with our water._

Though it had been Kilgarrah to explain to Merlin how to defeat the creature Morgause's predecessor Nimueh had sent to plague Camelot, Aithusa was well aware of the incident. How many Merlin's magic couldn't cure as Gaius had searched for the cause. He did not need to deal with such an epidemic now, when it was vital his attention was elsewhere.

At sunrise, the Saxons had attacked. In mass, it looked to Merlin, packed ranks of them pushing down the track to the hump of Mount Badon's shoulder, blocking. But the small square of bright-and-red warriors remained on the hilltop; he checked often. And there were no signals to the two of them that Merlin's magic was needed on the ground.

_There will be many dead, this day_, Aithusa commented, tilting nearly sideways as Merlin visually scoured another rocky hillside. _We will be up half the night burning corpses._

Merlin couldn't help shuddering at the utter lack of emotion in his kin's thought-voice.

The dragon twisted, leveling out and beginning to climb again. _The thought is distasteful to you? They are mostly enemies._

All morning they flew, making the terrain for miles around Badon impassable. It looked to Merlin as though the Saxons had not let up the whole time; the ebb and flow of the front lines nigh indistinguishable from their height, though he knew Arthur – and likely as not Orso as well – would be relieving fighters with replacements, giving a chance for rest and sustenance and medical aid, as necessary.

_Merlin_, Aithusa said, when the sun overhead was warm on his back and he was fairly sure their position was secure, beginning to think about landing to rejoin Arthur. _Merlin – the witch._

_ Where?_ He leaned over, as the white dragon banked and began a downward glide.

_ There, just south of the Saxon camp on the plateau._

He squinted, and couldn't see clearly. So he blinked and used his inner eye, cutting through the empty air between them faster than falling.

Another scouting party, probably attempting to find a viable path around Arthur or take him by surprise from another side. And yes, a female figure with them, blonde curls escaping the hood of a black cloak.

_I bet_, Merlin said grimly to his dragon, _that this full-force frontal attack is meant to hold our attention while she forges that new path around._

_ She is attempting to camouflage the party with an illusion,_ Aithusa added. _It is not fully effective._

An indication of her reduced ability, maybe.

_Get closer_, he told Aithusa. _At least let them know we've seen them, maybe they'll abandon the attempt without fighting._

_ And maybe,_ the white dragon responded facetiously, _serpents will sprout wings and claws and learn to speak in the tongue of dragons_. But he tucked his own wings slightly to fall faster, angling to swoop over the smaller detached party while still avoiding the main camp, and the track.

_What's that they've got with them?_ Merlin asked. _Looks like a very large crossbow or a very small catapult._

_ I can sense the magic as well,_ Aithusa replied. _Perhaps it is a weapon they plan to place strategically higher on Mount Badon to bring about King Arthur's defeat._

_ They've seen us, _Merlin added, as the smaller figures pointed and scurried; it looked like they were trying to protect their strange piece of equipment or weaponry – it looked like they were trying to –

An object shot into the air, arcing upward toward their path of flight, blossoming open – a web? – a _net_.

Big enough to snare a dragon.

How had they brought Kilgarrah down.

Merlin shoved his hand out, shoved his magic out to sweep the net clear, as Aithusa tried to slow his rush, shift his course.

Absolutely nothing happened. His magical thrust passed right through the gaps of the net, affecting it not at all.

They would be caught, he saw in an instant.

Used against each other, against Arthur – the king would be defenseless against Morgause without one or the other –

As dragonlord he was responsible – Aithusa the only – the moment of Kilgarrah's death still a painfully sharp shard of memory in his heart –

One moment to decide.

As Aithusa began to turn – a useless attempt at escape – the net widened, closed with them –

"_Afarr ithi_!" Merlin hollered the command into the wind, breathless – as he released his hold upon the dragon – "_Fulassou Arkturo!" – _

And flung himself at the net.

"_Meite aneu tagmatos emou ekeinon apoleipei!"_

Physically preventing it from capturing his larger kin.

As Merlin _commanded_ his escape. Perhaps it needed verbal expression to bind the dragon to obedience, but it didn't require Aithusa to hear it externally, as the summons did not.

He hit the web more or less dead-center, clawing to gather as much as possible, to protect the last dragon. His momentum carried him forward; the net cut into him as the weights around the edges pulled together reactively, beginning to wrap around him.

Like a fowler's snare.

He struggled against the webbing – against the rush of air as he plummeted – tried to _shift_ back to the torr – or anywhere -

Couldn't.

Enchantment on the rope-web to contain such magic. Just as he'd once done in the throne room of Camelot, to trap the blonde High Priestess.

Kept falling.

Faster, it seemed. How high was he? Surely the ground was – _ay gods Arthur, the ground –_

Unconsciousness slammed into him.

**A/N: **_**Micel Here**_** – 'great army' in Danish. I think. Completely random, and probably wrong, but it sounds good. **

**And, Merlin's command to Aithusa: "Go immediately! Protect/guard Arthur, and do not leave him without my command!" All thanks and credit to Sandyy for translation!**


	16. Bad News

**Chapter 16: Bad News**

"Arthur, take a breather!"

He dispatched his current opponent with a nasty slice through the side of his momentarily-unprotected neck, and took the chance to straighten and glance around.

It was Gwaine who'd spoken, who fought two Saxons at once, just ahead of him and to the left, slightly lower on the northeast slope of the track descending from Badon Hill.

The Saxon attack had not relented, for hours it seemed; the sun stood high. Footing was treacherous now, the slope and track trampled into a mire of blood and mud and worse, dead and dying an impediment to the grimly alive and fighting. But though he'd ordered his troops to pull back to the hilltop more than once, the Saxons had not taken any opportunity to fall back also, to clear the battlefield of those no longer able to participate.

He wondered if the enemy intended to smother them with the bodies of the dead. If they intended the filth of the same to pollute and poison the springs beneath, and so defeat the forces holding the track.

"Arthur, to the torr!" Gwaine shouted over his shoulder. "Leon and de Gransse want a word!"

Some strategy that had occurred to them, maybe. He himself had submerged thought beneath the instinct of training, simply fighting the foe that came against him, personally, in the front lines.

"Hold the line!" he returned, needlessly. Gwaine was a devil of a fighter, as he was a bit of a devil in other things. But as he turned to jog up the hill ten yards or so behind the thick of the fight, something caught his eye.

Aithusa, very low in the sky, very near the Saxon camp. Writhing, midair, in some great emotion.

As a smaller, indistinct bundle dropped.

Arthur's first thought – that the dragon had snatched someone from the ground to drop them from a height to a horrible and ostentatious death. Maybe Orso? maybe Morgause? He hadn't seen either of them in the battle here, this whole morning.

But Aithusa's serpentine body straightened from its contortions, the great wings flapping as he flew straight and hard – for Badon hill. Arthur didn't move. Not to ascend where he'd been requested to meet with his captains, not to lift his sword against the next Saxon.

A knight snapped his name – Gwaine, no one else would dare, he thought distantly – lunging to defend him.

He didn't… see… Merlin. With Aithusa.

Even ducking behind the skull plate-and-spikes, where he'd seen the young sorcerer tucked before, showing head and heels, only. Even, carried injured in Aithusa's scaly clawed forepaw.

A ripple of agitation seemed to tremble through the black-clad ranks that had advanced, chaotically but inexorably, on the hill since sunrise. Aithusa swooped, low enough that several dozen fighters startled apart to duck – black and crimson, both – then wheeled over Badon, the huge sails of his wings lifted and spread high to catch air, in preparation to slow and stop.

Right in the middle of the melee.

Arthur inhaled. And bellowed, "_Ware the dragon_!"

The knights of Camelot scrambled and dove to one side or the other, hugging the mountainside, slipping down toward the springs. He himself forgot to move – and Gwaine disobeyed – as Aithusa performed the worst landing Arthur had ever seen.

Crashing hard onto his left side – wings high and out of the way – the dragon's heavy scaly body left a great gouge in the track down to Arthur and Gwaine, who crouched as if expecting to have to defend him against Aithusa. Without pausing, the dragon clawed himself upright against the earth. Arthur had never seen him looking so wild – and felt afraid of him for the first time – great golden eyes dilated and every one of his foot-long fangs bared in a snarling roar.

Which gave way to the crackle and heat of flames, roaring from Aithusa's maw. Moment after moment, hotter and more furious, down the track past Arthur and Gwaine. Fully as high as they were tall, and reaching nearly to the bottom of the hill – and Arthur could not hear the screams of the dying enemy warriors over the pounding heat.

He took three breaths, then four, before the dragonfire ceased.

The hillside was charred. The rest of the Saxon army in full panicked retreat down the track toward their encampment around the bend. Gwaine was swearing behind him – breathlessly, mindlessly, repetitively.

"Aithusa," Arthur said into the eerie silence that followed. "Where's Merlin?"

"Taken!" the dragon spat, and never had his voice sounded more alien. "Captured. So _that_ is how they defeated Kilgarrah! They shot a net - and Merlin threw himself into it that I might fly free! Why did he – I could have burned it with fire, I could have _caught_ him-!"

A moment of stunned resistance. Arthur saw nothing but white – and then a tiny indistinct bundle dropping away from the white dragon in the distance -

"What are you doing here, then?" Gwaine shouted. "Go back and save him!"

"I cannot!" Aithusa reared on his hind legs, grappling for a second with the empty air, his spread wings trembling like autumn leaves in a high wind. "He _ordered_ me! Never before in all our lives - !"

"Aithusa," Arthur said, over the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears, "he fell. Is he-"

The white dragon crashed back down onto four legs, shuddering, his wings tucking back into familiar folds almost of their own accord. "No, the order holds; he lives. They wanted him captured, not dead."

_Not yet. _

The words sounded involuntarily in Arthur's mind, and he flinched, turning to stare toward the last fleeing Saxon fighters, the camp hidden behind the next mountain, the one dark-haired knight trying to pick his way down the smoldering hillside.

"Gwaine!" he shouted. "Not on your own!" Gwaine threw him a deadly-serious look over his shoulder and didn't pause. "You're no good to him dead!" He wanted to add something flippant and self-assured, how when Merlin returned he would be angry with Arthur for letting Gwaine's stupidity get his brother killed, how he himself had no intention of facing either Freya or Enid with this news, or making Merlin – again supposing his safe return – do the same.

Arthur felt a wave of sickening dread and swallowed, throat so dry it stuck for a moment. He wanted to do the same, march down the hill and keep going, slaying everyone who stood between him and his friend in his fury - and the knowledge that he couldn't, was a hot coal deep in the center of his chest.

"He's probably raising hell in their ranks right now," he managed.

"He is unconscious," Aithusa growled beside him in contradiction.

"But they haven't killed him," Gwaine said, pointing his sword momentarily at the dragon in emphasis.

"No."

In the pause that followed, three others joined them, sliding down the brow of the hill in their haste – Percival, Lancelot, and Leon.

Leon panted, "What's happened, Arthur?"

Gwaine made his decision, hiking back up the hillside. "The Saxons have Merlin," he said grimly, his head down. "Any volunteers to go with me?"

Percival swore, succinctly and surprisingly foul – Arthur thought briefly and inconsequentially that he hoped the big knight never said that particular word in front of Lucan – though he wasn't sure he'd ever heard it from Percival before, either.

Lancelot said instantly, to Arthur, "I'll go."

"Sire, the chances of a rescue party succeeding…" Leon said. As he often did, conscientiously arguing the wisest course, even if it went against his own feeling, also. "They still outnumber us – and Merlin is a highly capable sorcerer –"

"His magic is useless when he's unconscious," Gwaine argued.

"They've captured him, but they haven't killed him?" Lancelot said, glancing from Arthur to Aithusa to corroborate.

"If he was dead, I would know," the white dragon rumbled. "His order would fail and I would burn every last one of them. Or perish myself in trying."

"Arthur, they must surely know that," Lancelot said. "They won't risk that."

"They'll negotiate," Leon said.

Ye gods, what a yawning black abyss of despair. Merlin, or all Albion. They'd demand Arthur's surrender, his retreat from Badon – to Camlann, then? – and how would they ensure the agreement was kept, upon Merlin's release? How would they –

"They'll never hold him, once he wakes," Percival said with certainty.

Half a heartbeat, for the same thought to occur to them all. Arthur fought a violent rise of nausea – how would they hold him, keep him unconscious – and by the expressions, his men felt the same way.

"Can you tell if he's –" he said to Aithusa.

"He lives," the white dragon snapped. "That is all I know."

A moment passed in blind misery, or a century.

"Arthur…" Leon ventured.

"I don't think I can…" he began, and swallowed hard, again. "I don't think I can bargain, for his life. The conditions and assurances they're sure to demand… I can't." Couldn't swear Merlin's adherence to any agreement - or Aithusa's, for that matter – the way he could swear for his knights and allies.

Would they know that? Would they anticipate having to permanently prevent retribution of dragon and dragonlord alike? And _how_?

"A rescue, then," Gwaine said, as if it was obvious, swinging about to face toward the Saxon camp.

"Equally impossible," Arthur heard himself say. "Outnumbered, in broad daylight, and we don't know where they're holding him."

Another pause.

"If we won't negotiate, and they can't kill him…" Leon paused, eyeing Arthur in a way that said he was steeling himself to say the hard and unpleasant truth. "Arthur, there's a lot they _can_ do to him, short of killing him. We can't attack them either – they could make this last a long time."

Arthur repressed a shudder, closing his eyes to think, balancing what he wanted with what he was able to achieve. Against what was impossible to give up.

"They haven't the supplies to wait more than a few days," Percival stated.

"They might prepare to counter Aithusa's attack, and then kill him," Leon said in a low voice, as if to keep the possibility between the two of them. But the dragon growled and shook himself.

Arthur opened his eyes and looked up at Aithusa. "If they do," he told the white dragon, "make sure you take Morgause when you attack. Then we can face them sword to sword and man to man."

"Arthur," Gwaine said. "I understand that your responsibilities affect your decisions, but I can't do nothing. If I may take half a dozen volunteers, and if we dress in the clothes of some of these corpses, and if we don't come straight down the track –"

"Merlin and Aithusa spent all morning closing off any possible alternative routes," Arthur said.

"So we have Aithusa fly us round to a point where they can't see us, and make our way in," Gwaine continued stubbornly, and Arthur knew this knight at least was fully capable of wandering from the torr stronghold on some excuse, then 'losing' his way in the direction of the enemy camp.

"I have been ordered not to leave Arthur," Aithusa rumbled wrathfully.

"Well, bring him along," Gwaine countered.

"I could not. By my lord's order –" And Arthur was sure Merlin was going to get the hot side of Aithusa's tongue for what he'd done this day – "I must protect him. It would be impossible for me to bring him into a situation I considered dangerous."

"Can you," Arthur began slowly, "sense his location exactly? Within a few feet either way, say?"

"Within a few paces," Aithusa answered, "depending on the distance between us." Arthur stared down the empty track, thinking.

"Arthur?" Lancelot said.

"Orso asked me, what would it take for us to move from the hill," Arthur said, still slowly, still thinking furiously. "He asked me, what made me think I could hold it – and _Merlin_ answered him. This capture cannot have been unplanned – which means they think they know how to contain his magic. At least temporarily. But if they want us to negotiate – if they expect us to negotiate – he will not be seriously harmed."

"Until we refuse," Leon pointed out.

"_Until_," Arthur repeated. "If we can delay them until dark – if Aithusa will fly with me over the camp and it's possible to pinpoint his location in it – perhaps, Sir Gwaine, your subterfuge with the disguise and infiltration might work."

And perhaps, if the idea was sound, they might make a bold gamble, and send more than half a dozen, and hope to take Orso or Morgause by surprise.

Assassination was not Arthur's inclination, but. They had taken Merlin. And to get him back, Arthur was prepared to feel a little less honorable, and a little more ruthless.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was a tiny movement, barely noticeable, hardly even there.

But Freya was, perhaps understandably, sensitive to such things. She stumbled a step, crossing the courtyard of the outpost toward the wall's gate, and caught herself a bit absently, pressing her free hand over her lower abdomen and adjusting the basket she carried over her other arm.

"Are you feeling him move, then?" Finna inquired placidly, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of wind-teased wavy hair behind her dark blue headscarf.

Freya almost tripped again. "What?"

"Your babe. I'm not wrong, am I? Are you three months or four, along?" Finna's peaked brows rose above her wide innocent eyes.

"Closer to four, now," Freya admitted.

"And you're feeling him move?"  
Freya wondered, at the older woman's use of the masculine pronoun. But she didn't quite dare ask; there were only two possibilities for the baby's gender, after all, and she'd noticed that some women preferred to assume one or the other for the ease of conversation.

"It's hard to tell," she answered. "Whether it's that or just –"

"Indigestion?" Finna nodded.

"I… haven't really told anyone," Freya said, as they entered the shade of the barbicon passage. "Merlin knows, of course, and Gwen guessed. My mother-in-law and sister-in-law in Camelot. But… I have expected other children, before, and lost them, so… I'm not really keen to spread the news?"  
Finna freed a hand from her own burden to pat Freya's on the handle of her basket. "I'm sorry to hear it, dear. I know one or two or five things that might help you, though, we can talk about it in private if you like."

"You do?" Freya said, surprised. "But Merlin said –"

Finna gave her a childlike smile. "For all his physician's skill and incredible magic, Master Emrys is still just a man, and quite young," she said. "Your mother was a midwife, and I learned many things from her. Don't you worry about this babe – between you and me and magic and a few old tricks, I believe you'll be just fine."

"Thank you," Freya said. Sincerely, but still not daring to allow herself to hope.

They emerged from the tunnel to bright late-morning sunshine. Freya raised a hand to shade her eyes, looking past the field where the last of Camelot's troops were organizing – but now in a rather agitated way.

"Finna," she said, feeling a cold wash of apprehension, "look there, beyond our men. Is that an army approaching, from the south?"

Finna's response was interrupted by a man's shout – and they both turned to see a young knight, lean body tight with tension, face white beneath the freckles. Hurrying, very definitely, to reach _them_.

"Sir Bodiver," Freya said. "What is –"

"My lady," the young knight said, eyes light with suppressed anguish. "I'm afraid I have some bad news."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It had been years since Arthur had flown with Aithusa. All the gods willing, it would be years before it was necessary again.

They were _high_. And the dragon flew fast and hard and angry. Arthur didn't even try to speak to him, difficult as it would have been in the cold rush of air. He simply blinked away the moisture that formed in his eyes and memorized the layout of the Saxon camp, far below on the plateau, behind the mountain from Camelot's position on Badon hill.

And, noticed their midafternoon contingent had arrived. Good. Now they were two units away from being full-strength. He wondered if maybe – as long as the fighting did not resume – this unit would be rested enough by nightfall to go with Gwaine tonight.

And him. He had no idea if Aithusa could pinpoint _his_ location by any means, but he had no intention of sending anyone to the Saxon camp – to rescue only, or also to attack – without him.

It did bother him a bit that Orso had sent no messenger to request another meeting. But if Arthur sent someone, it placed him in a weaker position as supplicant, and accelerated the negotiation process that was doomed to fail. And probably would not interrupt whatever they were doing with Merlin anyway. At least Aithusa had not howled in sudden grief before hurtling downward to engulf them all in the fiery throes of death.

Arthur lurched in his uncomfortable seating along the dragon's spine, between skull-plates and shoulder-ridge, as Aithusa turned in a slow, steep circle, back toward Badon – and this time, Arthur knew instinctively they would not be merely looping for another pass. He leaned to look down for one last look – yes, he'd be able to draw the somewhat haphazard layout from memory – and prepared himself for the descent and landing.

Hells. And hells again. He did _not_ know why Merlin loved this so – his heart was going to pitch right up from his chest through his mouth, followed by his stomach – caught in his throat, so he couldn't breathe. Eyes watering so he couldn't see –

_Thump_.

He clutched Aithusa's head-spikes, unable for a moment to adjust to being still.

"You know where they have him?" he said to Aithusa, wiping his eyes with the cuff of the jacket he wore beneath his mail-armor.

"Third tent from the east, seventh from the north he's still unconscious I can't tell anymore than that." So the dragon was still mad.

Arthur – stiff from the morning's battle and the afternoon's flight – swung his leg over Aithusa's neck as several of his knights, and Lord Lionel emerged from the torr.

Oh! he'd forgotten how very far _down_ –

His feet hit the ground. And his knee exploded with agonizing heat.

He felt something _shift-grind-tear_ before the rest of him tumbled to the earth in a very un-kingly way.

"Arthur!"

For a moment he simply held very still, eyes and teeth clamped shut against the bright demons of pain who danced in triumph on him, around him, _through_ him.

Then he opened his eyes and focused on his hands, his gloves – _filthy_, and they had been a gift from Guinevere – earth and rock and short tough colorless grass, ashy smear and maybe the damp was blood soaked into the ground. Hands grasped him, lifted him.

The first face he saw was Gwaine's – confusion and concern.

"My damn knee," he said, his lips feeling stiff.

"Thought Merlin fixed that," Gwaine grunted, ducking under his arm.

"Sire?" Leon was on his other side.

Arthur waved him off. "I'm fine. I just landed wrong."

"Come inside the torr." That was Lancelot, who very properly had moved past the issue involving their wives without a word. "Send someone for one of the healers."

"No," Arthur said. Percival was there, and Lionel, too, who'd brought Alator to help with the wounded – he felt embarrassed, and furious. "Just – let me sit on a rock or something. Leave Alator and Gilli to their work, I'll be fine. I don't want to be inside the torr til it's dark."

"Come on, then," Gwaine said, starting to carry-lead him to the side, and Arthur understood his impatience. "What did you find out? You can't take _any_ of your weight, can you?" He staggered as Arthur struggled forward.

"I'll rest it," Arthur said shortly. "Alator can have a look when he's finished with the others. Here is good."

He couldn't quite bite back a groan as Gwaine helped lower his weight to a low stone, flat though tilted, and glared up at the knights who gathered round in concern. He was fine, he would be fine, he could fight, he could – stupid knee.

"Here's the camp," he said tersely, daring anyone with another glance to continue speaking of him when they'd lost Merlin. He pulled his dagger from his belt – the anchor for the spell that would catch any arrows aimed for him even if Merlin wasn't there. Gripping the hilt and pushing the thought from his mind, he leaned forward to scratch the outline of the Saxon camp in the dirt, filling in the crooked rows of tents as he remembered them. "This is where they're holding him. Right, Aithusa?"

"That is correct," the white dragon rumbled from above them – not even looking down at the drawing, tense as a gargoyle and focused on the bend in the track.

"Straight down the road is out," Arthur said, glancing up at his men.

Gwaine was down on one knee, studying – memorizing, likely – the layout of the enemy's camp. Leon frowning, Percival and Lancelot thoughtful, Lord Lionel neutrally focused on Arthur.

"But it looks to me like you could go through the springs and up around that mountain –" he pointed past Gwaine's shoulder – "there. And avoid whatever watch they've set on the track. With a little luck – and darkness – you could infiltrate."

Gwaine nodded, glancing up at the sky as if trying to gauge how much daylight was left. Percival folded large bare arms over his chest, clearly ready to go if he was needed.

Leon said, "But, Arthur. We don't know anything about how they're keeping him there, what if it's impossible to free him without magic, what if the witch is with him? There are so many unknowns."

"At the very least," Lancelot ventured, with a tentative glance between the two of them, "it can be scouted, details reported back."

"You know," Gwaine said suddenly, "I think if I asked Gilli, he might –"

"Arthur," Lionel said. The others quieted, instinctively deferential for his age and rank both; three of the knights had once been sworn men or citizens of the lord's province of Lionys. "I understand the importance of Merlin Emrys – to you, to Camelot, to this battle. But I have to say, I think this is unwise. You may lose every man you send with no result other than further punishment befalling your friend. Any other knight, we would be mourning as already lost, simply because rescue or escape is so improbable and I understand he is not merely one of your knights, I do. But we cannot afford to lose men from the defense of this hill. You, my lord, will not be able to lead or participate in the fighting as it is unless or until your injury is healed by one of the druids – you need your best men here."

Arthur growled, but could not argue with his father-in-law's logic. "What do you suggest, in alternative?"

"Caution, above all." Lionel looked around at the four other knights; only Gwaine avoided meeting his eyes, but it might have been out of respect. "Time is the Saxon's enemy. As supplies dwindle, his men will lose faith. We have still the dragon to defend against the witch, and – forgive me my lord dragon, I speak but the truth as I see it – if they kill his lord and prepare for his retaliatory attack, he will still significantly decrease their numbers, is it not so?"

"All," Aithusa said implacably. "If my lord's order is lifted by his death, I will take them all."

"Time gives us all the men at our disposal," Lionel went on. "More supplies. Even reinforcements from Lot or Bayard –"

"Nemeth is sending troops," Percival interjected.

"Perhaps your sorcerer will accomplish the unexpected, on his own," the oldest of them continued, his tone compassionate but steady. "Perhaps we consider negotiation, simply to buy the time we need, he needs, and that can only serve to hurt the Saxon."

Negotiation was a farce, Arthur privately thought, and impossible, when one really thought about the issues at stake, the personalities involved, and the lack of trust or assurance that an agreement would remain fact.

"Perhaps we even fall back to Camlann in a show of dispersal or surrender, then hit them in an ambush," Lionel continued.

Arthur straightened. Camlann might well mean his death. Although, now that Merlin was captured – and probably in considerable danger, if he was yet unharmed – priorities shifted.

But. There were certain other facts he could not deny. If Gwaine was not allowed his chance, he might very well take it anyway, and Arthur would just as soon not force his knight to disobey him in so doing – there were considerations of reward and punishment and precedent, if he achieved any measure of success.

And. He himself could not go. Could not even fight, unless Gilli or Alator could accomplish complete healing. Much as he hated to admit it, his knee throbbed almost unbearably; it was hard to sit still.

What had Merlin said about Caerleon? Essentially, do nothing definite, wait for a better opportunity.

"They haven't sent a messenger yet," he said, not really a question, but Leon and Lancelot both shook their heads anyway. "Gwaine, not before full dark. And other decisions need not be made until we hear from the Saxons. We wait."

And hope to high heaven that the delay was not costing Merlin. Would not cost them, Merlin.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It had been an awkward two days in Stawell. Going on two and a half, now.

Busy, of course. With Arthur gone at first light on the first day, and on such a troubled goodbye, Gwen had thrown herself into helping the rest of the army, however she could, and didn't really notice Morgana's absence.

Until that evening. Leon had gone at midmorning, Gwaine at noon, and Percival three hours or so before nightfall, leaving Lancelot and Gwen's father to lead the first two companies, the next morning. But Morgana did not come to dinner – simple and quick though it was.

The two men had many things still in common from the years when Lancelot was captain of Lionel's guards in Lionys to discuss, however, which Gwen was not unaware of, so the conversation flowed smoothly enough, but she rather thought her father might have noticed the tension – of embarrassment, at the very least. But he never asked, and she didn't mention the awkwardness – which was a very polite and mild term to describe the situation – of her late-night conversation with Lancelot and Arthur's hot-tempered reaction, and the questionable choices of Morgana and her half-sister, both.

The second day, Morgana had been present in the courtyard to bid her husband farewell at dawn, but Gwen had not seen her the rest of the day. Lord Lionel had marched with his contingent midmorning, the other three contingents with extra supplies departing as scheduled with no problems and since then she had been a something like loose ends. Everything in readiness with the outpost expecting the arrival of casualties; though none needing care had arrived yet, there was little to be done but wait.

Early afternoon, the third day, found Gwen atop the southern tower. A bit of a walk from the corner where she'd watched her father's company disappear into the foothills, but the breeze was fine and cool and the spring air warm. It seemed so quiet, now that the troops in Stawell counted only those left behind to hold the outpost.

She leaned against the waist-high parapet of thick dark stone to watch Freya and Finna, the middle-aged healer from Lionys, cross the courtyard, two stories below her. And turned, to hear a step on the tower stair behind her.

Morgana emerged in a dress of green silk, so dark it looked black except where the sunlight caught its folds – and reminded Gwen a bit of the druidic markings on the inside of Merlin's forearms – carrying little Nenna in her arms, atop the bulge of her expectancy. Her face was an exhausted white, her green eyes dark with recent weeping and not enough sleep.

Gwen moved without thinking to reach out her arms for her little niece. "Come to Auntie, Nenna. Morgana, are you all right?"

"Auntie," Morgana repeated, in a strange half-strangled sob. "Yes, Nenna – go to auntie." Gwen settled the little girl on her hip, and Nenna laid her black ringlets on the fur-collar of Gwen's over-tunic, petting the softness gently. "Gwen, I – I don't know how to say, I'm sorry. I only thought – my _sister_. Nenna's only other aunt."

"Morgana, you don't – we don't have to talk about this."

Gwen had thought, herself, how she would feel if Elyan turned traitor to Lionys' marriage-alliance with Camelot, and became Arthur's enemy. She could not say with much certainty that she would not have acted so, persuading Arthur to treat with the forces where her brother stood in the ranks of the enemy, rather than fight, or try to correspond with him herself in an attempt to change his mind. She understood Morgana's headstrong and tempestuous nature, the way the power of her magic often tempted her with the idea that she could _make_ things her way, rather than waiting for events to unfold as the rest of them had to. She also understood Lancelot's devotion to his wife and his desire to bridge the gap between the two half-siblings, his wife and his liege.

"They're all out there, now," Morgana said. "My husband, my brother – your husband, your father. My sister. And I can have no part in it – I can't go, because of this one." She laid her hand over her bulging belly. "And I hate it – I hate having to wait and watch. So many times when we were young, hoping the ones I waited for would come back alive. What is magic for, if not to _participate_?"

"I'm not sure Merlin would see it that way," Gwen hedged.

"Merlin." Morgana said their friend's name in a despairing tone, with a bitter little laugh. "He was raised with a druid's rule of caution and isolation. He will never forgive me if something happens to Arthur. And Arthur may never forgive me anyway."

"I think you underestimate them both," Gwen said, kindly and gently. "Everyone makes mistakes, Morgana, and if he can accept men like Odin and Caerleon as allies, how much more willing will he be with you, his own sister? You'll just have to give him a chance, you see?"

Morgana murmured something that was not disagreement, and stepped up next to her, her gaze over Gwen's left shoulder and rather distant. "I see someone coming," she said. "It looks like an army."

Gwen turned and squinted down to the south. Morgana was right – a few riders at the head of a column marching on foot, and sunlight flashing from the metal edges of borne weaponry.

And none in Camelot crimson.

They watched a single knight from the camp further west jog out to meet the army, and stop a stone's-throw away. A moment passed in which the approaching army did not attack, then the lone knight turned to hurry toward Stawell's gates.

"We should get down there," Gwen said. "He'll be looking for one of us or the other."

"For you," Morgana said cynically.

"Come with me," Gwen insisted, not looking away from her sister's intense green gaze, and Morgana relented.

"Nenna, sweetie, can you run along to your room?" she said, and Gwen bent to set the little girl on her feet. "Find your nursie, how about? There's a love."

Following just long enough that Morgana was sure the instruction to her daughter would be obeyed, they descended to the courtyard level to find that the single knight-messenger who'd spoken with the unknown army was Sir Bors, but not alone. Sir Bodiver was with him, and Freya and Finna all turning as they emerged.

She was distracted from Freya's evident distress – and Finna's evident support – by the grim looks worn by both young knights.

"What is it?" she said, when she and Morgana were close enough to communicate without shouting. "The army at our gates? News from Badon?"

"The army is Caerleon's," Bors said, raspy and grave. He glanced over at his fellow knight before adding, "He wants your permission to join the king's forces at Badon."

"Reinforcements," Gwane said, feeling a relief that was incongruous in the face of Freya's pale distraction and quickly-wiped tear. _What else?_

"So he says," Morgana muttered darkly.

"Only…" Bors hesitated, glancing uncomfortably again at Bodiver as the other two women moved to join them.

"There's something else," Bodiver said to Gwen. "Something more. I… I can't reach Merlin. He won't answer me."

Gwen's eyes met Freya's in swift understanding, and dawning apprehension. "They're fighting, then," she said to Bodiver, but looking only at Merlin's wife. "They're just busy."

"No, you don't understand." The young knight shook his head. "Merlin always answers, even if it's just to tell me _quiet_, or _not now_. And it's been… over an hour. Since noon, when we agreed to contact each other, just to… stay informed. I can't reach him, my lady."

Gwen closed her eyes for a moment, feeling a bit dizzy. If something had happened to Merlin, what did that mean for the rest of them? She felt a hand slip into hers – too small for either knight, and the wrong side for Morgana.

"It doesn't have to mean anything's happened to Arthur," Freya said, her voice catching. "You have to believe he'll be okay, that he'll come home again just like always." She hugged Freya blindly, feeling Morgana's arm now around her shoulders, too.

"They both will," Gwen whispered in her friend's ear, and felt Freya suppress a sob before she nodded.

"What about Caerleon?" Morgana asked.

Gwen blinked and wiped moisture from her face, looking into Freya's eyes – remembering Merlin's belief that Arthur would change the barbarian's mind – remembering Arthur's choice to trust the other ruler.

As he had trusted Morgana?  
No, Gwen scolded herself, that was hardly fair. Or right, to judge others by one person's mistakes. Whether or not Caerleon was trustworthy had nothing to do with Morgana.

But what if the battle was going badly, and she told Caerleon the secret of the direct route and he arrived at Mount Badon in time to help the Saxons crush Camelot's forces, in return for assurances of his own, as Cenred his neighbor to the north, had done? What if she refused to allow him access to the White Mountains and he laid siege to Stawell in a fit of pique, or simply went around by way of the now-unguarded Dinas Emrys?

And she had no way of relaying a message to her husband and king for his decision.

She squared her shoulders, meeting the others' eyes, in turn. Morgana, Bodiver, Bors, Freya and Finna. "Let's go have a chat with Caerleon."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The dragon roared continuously, through the pounding pulse rushing around his skull.

Merlin was still falling.

He was still fighting. Fighting the insidious webbing that wrapped him in darkness and lethargy, promising peace and rest upon his surrender.

_ Swefe nu… _

Partially successful. A renewed spell, he sensed, and scrambled for the serenity and control of his druid's training. Slowly, as if through the deepest water, sluggishly, and it was hard to remember why, exactly… or where he was going…

Someone slid a hand over his chest – attempting to fit a lid over the deep golden well of his magic – the old language twined about his subconscious.

He resisted. Shielding magic should be child's play for him…

_Hyran scolde, Merlin._

He fought, his magic roiling against the darkness that sought to quash and smother.

Around the roaring of the dragon, that shifted his veins and rattled his teeth, he heard words that were not of magic. They meant little in the dark and fire and molten gold and red agony, but he heard them.

\- You said you could bind his magic to yours. So far you have failed.

He felt contact, movement, fresh pain bubbling up through a pervasive and eternal ache.

\- Damaging the body will not help, Cenred. This spell requires conscious agreement.

\- If he was conscious, he'd never agree – he'd fight. Is that not why we're keeping him asleep?

\- In theory, the lack of cooperation might be circumvented in an unconscious state, depending on the strength and focus of the individual sorcerer.

\- Fine, so this method won't work. Didn't you mention something about a ritual that could break his mind? Then the resistance would be gone, don't you think?

\- The efficacy of the ritual of the Teine Diaga depends upon the soundness of the victim's psyche, and the natural opposition to external manipulation. With the strongest individuals, it may take up to fifty applications and constant exposure for up to a month.

\- Damn it to hell, we haven't got that many or that long, Morgause – Orso is waiting on our results to send a messenger to the king on Badon hill and he is not a patient man! All right, what else could we try, he wants to use Emrys' power, if at all possible, not to waste it simply neutralizing him.

\- I do not have a Nathair. I do not have a Fomorroh.

\- Fine, then. Try the mandrake; I'll try to stall Orso – and at least we still have that thing in the box.

\- There is another spell we could try first, or in connection with the mandrake. _Mod wes craeftles._

Magic swirled inside him, rising as if to escape, shrinking back. Childish, he submerged himself, abandoning his senses entirely to avoid the spell's entanglement. Held stubbornly to his magic, and would not share.

He heard the dragon roaring.

And it sounded like… Arthur's despairing surrender.

Freya's last moan and gasp before she stopped breathing, covered in her blood and that of their child.

Gwen's pained cry of mortally injured hope.

Voices of mingled blame and agony and disappointment and hate and pain and rejection and spite – bastardlazygoodfornothingwhoreson…

Hunith. And Gaius. And Gwaine, Percival, Leon, Lancelot, Tristan… Morgana and Enid and Isolde, Bors-Kay-Bodiver – everyoneeveryoneEVERYONE

The dragon howled.

He blocked it all out, and completely.

**A/N: A bit longer, but I couldn't leave you without Merlin pov…**

**Thanks to STL13 &amp; shelle-ma-belle for the name of the mandrake ritual!**

**Though, spells from ep.1.4 "The Poisoned Chalice" (**_**hyran scolde**_** – obedience spell), 2.10 "Sweet Dreams" (**_**swefe nu**_** – sleeping spell) and 4.12 "The Sword in the Stone" (**_**Mod wes craeftles –**_** the will-taking spell).**


	17. The Captive's Token

**Chapter 17: The Captive's Token **

Arthur sat on a boulder at the top of the hill, waiting.

Waiting for Alator or Gilli to finish tending the wounded below and behind him, and come to see what might be done about his knee.

Waiting for Aithusa – looking for all the world like an enormous cousin of the stone gargoyles that decorated the roof-edges of Camelot's citadel – to break his complete concentration upon the hidden camp of Saxons, rock-still and taut-tense. To tell him – what? Something. He'd long discarded the idea of asking the dragon to heal the twist of his knee.

Waiting, as Gwaine was, piecing together salvageable pieces of clothing and armor from the enemy corpses for the men he would take in his attempt to infiltrate the unseen camp.

An hour, maybe, til sundown, give or take. And a couple more til full dark, but maybe the gloom of twilight was preferable, less suspicious?

And if one of the druid-healers could make his knee whole, he was going with Gwaine. Because of how still and silent his friend's dragon was. Because there were no lightning-bolts or fire-balls or earth-tremors to give evidence that Merlin was fighting back.

A booted foot disrupted shale near him, but he didn't turn around. "Arthur," Lord Lionel said, his voice low and calm. "Perhaps you should consider retiring to the torr. Leave this vigil for others."

He didn't respond.

"We know you're worried," his father-in-law continued, stepping closer. "We _all_ know you're worried – and that isn't good for the morale of the men."

Arthur sighed, relenting a bit to drop his head to his gloved hand. Lionel was right. And there was nothing he could _do_, anyway, witnessing any sign of Merlin's magic at work here and firsthand, or receiving word moments after, from a lookout.

He wondered if this was how Merlin had felt, to hear the Camlann prophecy. The great and horrible apprehension of unknown but almost certain danger, when and how the end might come – and he could do _nothing_.

Well. He could at least stop worrying the knights and soldiers watching him.

"Your hand, please?" he said aloud, and the older man moved around the boulder to help pull Arthur to his feet, balance him and allow the hand on the shoulder of his Lionys-green tunic to hobble to the torr.

He hadn't gone three steps when Aithusa launched himself into the air with a pounding swirl of wings and wind. He ducked and squinted as Lionel did, but Aithusa only circled Badon's brow, and came to rest on the higher peak. Perhaps in response to something he'd gathered from Merlin, perhaps to get a better vantage point for his vigil, perhaps merely because Arthur was retiring for the night.

"Arthur, there's another messenger," Leon called softly, the former scout frowning toward the far bend of the track, hand on the hilt of his sword.

Gwaine, beyond him, straightened from his distasteful task with the dead to see for himself, then to meet Arthur's gaze in grim silence.

"Back down," Arthur ordered him. "Don't let him see anything to guess our intent." Gwaine nodded shortly, abandoning the last body to gather up his appropriated bundle of Saxon clothing and jog down the hill to the rear, where Percival and Lancelot were taking their turns at dinner.

"Sire," Lionel reminded him.

This had best be done out of sight of his army also, he thought. He gave the older man a terse nod, and they moved once again for the torr.

The main chamber was roughly ten feet, wall to wall to wall, where an uneven ledge had been left to form a rough bench. Torchlight flickered over natural roughness and tool marks alike, along the walls, as Arthur limped heavily, and lowered himself with a groan.

"Hells," he said. "Wouldn't you know it? Merlin enchants this thing –" the scabbard rang lightly as it struck the stone at his seating himself – "to prevent me bleeding, and I have to go and twist my knee off!"

"Very few wounds," Lord Lionel observed with a wry twinkle in his dark eyes, "are actually noble, sire."

Arthur snorted. It didn't help to rub the muscles around the joint, but he couldn't stop his hand creeping to try, more than once while they waited, again. Though he did have more sympathy, now, for what Guinevere was talking about, having to wait and wonder –

"Ah, damn!" he said, quietly explosive.

Lord Lionel, pacing slowly and aimlessly, wheeled around. "What?"

"If we had Sir Bodiver _here_… but who knows what he's said to Guinevere, in Stawell. Or what they're doing, now." He'd lost his link of communication to the outpost also, when he'd lost Merlin.

"I trust her," Lord Lionel stated. "She has a good head on her shoulders."

"I trust her, too," Arthur said. Feeling another pang for his behavior to her, their last night together. "But she won't know _we're_ okay."

Lionel made a noise of sympathetic comprehension, interrupted by the scraping of boots at the mouth of the entrance of the earthworks. Arthur straightened, clamping down on his anger with a steely resolve. Merlin wasn't dead; through Aithusa he would know if that happened. And to keep it that way –

A stranger came into view, not the translator that had come before, holding a dingy white cloth attached to a stick, dragging in the dust by his feet. His head was down, but his eyes darted in fear or curiosity or both, around the small chamber; the torr was such a warren that showing one man the first chamber wasn't much of a disclosure. Leon strode just behind.

"Well?" Arthur barked.

The man delayed half a disrespectful moment, before meeting his eyes. "His lordship Master Orso commands your presence meeting him," he said in a thick, halting accent – Arthur noted that if one Saxon could speak intelligibly, it was probable that more could, even Orso himself.

Arthur pretended to consider. Delay. As long as possible. Til dark.

"I have already met your commander," he replied. "I have no confidence that he and I could reach an agreement on much at all."

The man looked a bit disconcerted; he was probably not used to the art of diplomacy – a response without an answer. "His lordship said to say, we have something what belongs to you," he said bluntly. He dug in a pocket of his vest – Leon pulled three inches of his sword in reactive defense though any weapon the man might carry there would have to be ineffectively small – and pulled out –

A dark cord. From which dropped and danced a tiny silver piece, twisting and catching the light and –

Arthur didn't think he'd ever seen Merlin without it, since he'd been a skinny frightened determined boy in a brown druid's cloak. Since he'd been pale and exhausted resisting the transformation of a curse.

He didn't think he'd ever seen the charm without Merlin, since he'd held it for Merlin's victory over that curse, since his boyhood friend had placed it with unhesitating trust into Arthur's hand – his past his future his legacy his heart – to unlock the last door under the mountain. Old and young, beyond the wall.

Where Kilgarrah now slept permanently.

And where an exquisite silver tree in a hidden chamber bore a dozen such charms, with no owners.

His jaw hurt from clenching. His fingers ached from gripping the hilt of his dragonsword – which also had come to him from beneath the mountain, resting in the scabbard also an unimaginably generous gift. From the last of the lords. Shot down in the same way and by the same man who'd ended the life of his ancient kin.

Defensive and offensive magic together, and so terribly _Merlin_ that Arthur found it hard to breathe.

"Sir Leon," he grated out, "please relieve our guest of his token. And don't hesitate to take his hand with it, if he resists." That was, after all, a very old and very barbaric punishment for theft. One he didn't mind employing, in this instance.

The man looked alarmed, and fairly dropped the charm into Leon's outstretched hand. "I was given to know I could return the amulet if it requested," he said. "My lord Orso says you want its wearer returned also, you come –"

"Out," Arthur ground between his teeth. "I will consult with my men before giving your master an answer."

"If you don't come –"

Leon clapped a hand on the messenger's shoulder, yanking him back out of the passageway. Before they disappeared, he turned to hand Merlin's charm to Lionel, who brought it to Arthur.

At least – his hand trembled under the small plain ornament – there was no blood on it. But Merlin would never have _allowed_ –

"King Arthur." Alator's distinctive gravelly accent.

He closed his hand around the silver dragon, the ends of the cord trailing from his fist, and looked up as the druid entered the chamber. And maybe it was only the uncertain torchlight that made the older man's face resemble softened candle-wax, skin dragging downward in exhaustion.

"I was told, you are injured?"

"My knee." Arthur explained shortly, impatiently, the original occurrence as well as the more recent one. The druid knelt to push up the leg of his trousers much as Merlin had done, and examined the joint also – pressing and manipulating and it felt to Arthur like it hurt _more_, this time – before sitting back on his heels.

"I can do little for you, sire, except lessen the pain," Alator concluded, unsmiling. He reached for his case with a tremble of little glass vials.

Arthur objected, "But Merlin did a spell –"

Alator actually snorted. "Emrys studied many years with Gaius," he said brusquely. "His knowledge and skill both exceed my own, in matters like these. Now if your injury had affected your _mind_…"

Immediately Arthur's subconscious sought to supply the retort that Merlin would no doubt make, if he was there.

Another memory prevented it. One of Merlin commenting, calmly and academically, on the bastet curse he'd fought, how the possible transformation to a beast might affect the use and expression of his magic. Arthur's own unsettled and half-formed considerations of how Merlin could be held, and how the Saxons could ensure any bargain struck with Arthur alone was kept by dragon and dragonlord.

Even, a snarled remark from the young sorcerer, long ago, after facing another High Priestess – _I almost lost my soul_!

_ Take magic's soul to all men's cost… if blood be spilled…_

"Alator," he said, very quietly, as he accepted the pain tonic. "What are they doing to him? What can they do?"

The healer took a moment to respond. "Your Emrys is tough, and stubborn. There are ways to attempt restraint or involuntary cooperation, but they take time and can be resisted."

Arthur swallowed thickly. What would be the cost of such resistance – physically, magically, emotionally? And so far they had no proof that Merlin was successful. The offer for negotiation, conversely, might well be because he _had_ broken…

"…Have a salve which might help," Alator was saying. "I am sure your majesty will not mind applying it yourself, however, I should not be too long from other patients needing me."

"Of course." Arthur absently accepted another small vial, and tugged his glove from his hand with his teeth in preparation to smear the ointment on his –

He dropped the glove forgotten, staring at his hand in dumb shock.

It was glowing blue.

Arthur knew what it was immediately. Twice before he'd seen this residual glimmer on palm and fingers – when he'd curiously tested the light in the bell-cave of Dinas Emrys. And when Merlin had used something from him – strength or hope or simply the pure connection of shared destiny – to lift the curse in Lionys.

But now. His hand radiated that luminous, subtly-shifting blue-white of Merlin's magelight like the source itself. He turned his hand in stunned disbelief and looked at Alator – who was staring also, his mouth half-open.

"What –" Arthur had to clear his throat – "What does _this_ mean?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

_ Aweax thu metethearfenda… Thicge thu thone drycraeft the thinan deorcan mode gefylth…_

It was a call, a summons… but not for him.

Arise, and – feed?

Merlin woke with a splitting headache, and wished for a moment that he could sink back into painless oblivion.

But he could not dispel a vague but persistent feeling of… menace. The conviction that he had heard, or sensed, magic that was… that needed…

The feeling dragged him out of his mind and back into his body, where he was distracted by an almost overwhelming sensation of being thoroughly and inexplicably and undeservedly battered –

Arthur. Aithusa. Badon.

He opened his eyes.

Above him, dingy canvas billowing, oddly silent. Except he couldn't hear anything else, anyway.

Dim flickering light brushed the rough material. He felt the iron earth beneath bruises on his back; he didn't seem to be tied at all and that was good, but…

Rationality threatened him with unanswerable questions and he resisted, retreating into instinct – which made him move, to absorb more of his surroundings. Turning his head where it rested also on bruises, on the ground, to see a box.

A wooden box, of a size to be carried comfortably in a man's arms. Bound with strips of iron – a lid that was removed, propped beside the box – and runes. One rune, large on the lid, which signified -

His spirit recoiled. And he felt, without a clear cognitive understanding, that he hated and feared such wooden boxes, and what might be kept inside for centuries waiting for the right moment to strike at his hope and confidence and deliver the news of a death-blow –

Voices. One his instinct knew, but denied rationality could not name.

\- You better be sure about this, my lady.

\- The Teine Diaga didn't work. But, Arthur is nothing without Emrys… and Emrys is nothing without magic.

\- Orso will be angry. He wanted… but at least, if he cannot command the magic and the dragon, neither can Emrys. I suppose a defeated enemy is just as good as a forced ally… He wants results, Morgause, and he is threatening us with… How long will this take?

\- Moments, only.

\- Will it kill him?

Silence.

Then, a soft and insidious rustling, the first thing that was audible to him since regaining consciousness. Like a rising flood or a slithering serpent, or –

He turned his head away from the box to search for the origin of the noise, to look in the other direction –

And stared into a hole in reality. A muddy solid nothingness, a corporeal hunger for good and light and freedom and everything Merlin was and had. A ravenous sinkhole, shapelessly slug-like, that hated him and would devour him – not bodily, it wasn't large enough for that – his soul, then.

The sphere of darkness launched itself at his head.

Merlin had time only to close his eyes and hold his breath – felt the hard slimy impact, ooze spreading swiftly and abruptly over every corner of his face – in nostrils in ears in the hollows of his eyes and the cracks of his lips.

He couldn't breathe. His lungs were on fire – his pulse pounded through bruised flesh as he writhed in the struggle to grip the creature attached to his face – sucking _sucking_ his soul his magic –

That well. Deep and full and pure and serene and rarely had he ever used so much that it drained him to weakness and inability but it was being taken, siphoned, _slurped_ from his soul and body without consent and –

No.

He attempted a shield, which was immediately, hungrily absorbed. Licked right off his soul with a serrated tongue, and only served to increase the appetite of the darkness, and left his magic raw and vulnerable and -

_No_.

Merlin flung his magic from him like emptying a pail-full of water – sending it – it belonged to him he would choose to give it to another rather than allow it to be taken from him by this horrible twisted monstrosity –

To the hand of his master – each line and whorl and scar memorized, _engraved…_

All.

The well ran dry.

The creature found no sustenance, tasted nothing but stone and dust in Merlin's soul - and then his fingers found purchase beneath soggy edges by his jaw and he _shoved_.

He was shocked by how light it was – he heard it hit tent-canvas, and then the ground, _plop-splop_.

Merlin rolled away, gasping wetly for breath and coughing too hard to catch it. Scrabbling for the open box, he tumbled over it – grasping and gripping and shaking uncontrollably, so hard his whole body seized with pain again.

The living mire, the hungry darkness, came for him again in an instant and he caught it in the box, the impact slamming him to the ground, slamming his fingers between box and lid, fumbling so slow and clumsy and weak to latch it, to lock it.

He finally collapsed bodily over the container, hoping his weight would hold the lid shut. Hoping – sobbing – the thing could not ooze out between the hinges.

"Well," a voice said. A man's voice, mocking and unfeeling. "That was very impressive, Emrys."

He could not summon the strength to lift his head to identify the speaker; his whole body felt submerged beneath an inanimate form of the sludge that had drained him. When hands tried to heave him up from the closed wooden box, he fought them to be able to retain his hold, _hold it shut_ – but too feebly.

"Oh, just drag him," the same voice said. Irritable, impatient – anxious. "Orso wants him now."

The hard careless grip on each side rucked his clothing roughly up toward neck and armpits – unfastened jacket, and belt over his tunic pinching uncomfortably at his lowest ribs. His boots loosened slightly, heels scraping over rough ground, but that was secondary in his concern.

The box retreated in his vision, framed by the tan angled shape of a tent, the interior illuminated by single lantern on the ground. A woman in a shapeless black cloak bent to caress the lid and secure the lock, then rose to follow, her face framed in the hood by long blonde ringlets.

Sharp black mountain peaks. Darkening blue sky. The motion of the men who moved him a sensation at the corners of his vision, felt rather than seen.

She walked faster than they; the delicate features she shared with her royal half-sister remained blank. Those intense brown eyes cast down as she came – then lifted to his face for a moment, and he recognized the expression in them.

Emptiness.

It was how he felt. Cold and alone and incomplete and helpless and useless – though he was without his magic and she was not, they both had lost their souls.

His captors dropped his arms, and he made no effort to avoid the ground. He might have grunted at the impact, the sore agony that encompassed his entire being flaring somewhat. But he didn't see any reason to move. A little voice in the back of his mind that reminded him of Gaius said, _shock, perhaps_.

He rather wanted to sleep.

Even when another familiar face thrust itself into his field of vision. A man harder and crueler than the warlord Uther Pendragon. Who sneered around full moustaches trailing longer than his grizzled beard.

"Not so mighty now, are we, Emrys?"

The accent was strange, foreign. Odder even than the way Alator drew out his second-name, giving the first vowel a long A sound – _Aim_-rys. This man gave it an extra syllable and susurration – Am-_ro_-shus.

"He is broken to my will, then?" the Saxon commander went on, glancing up. First at the witch who loitered by Merlin's feet – then at the fox-faced traitor who appeared at Merlin's other side.

"Ah… no, my lord. He proved too strong, too resistant – we have used the gean canach to remove his powers from his control, instead…"

Orso was granite. "You. Did. What."

"He is impotent, now." Cenred sneered down at Merlin.

Neither look nor feeling touched him. He shifted his gaze past the heads of the men to the shy first stars, twinkling high above, throbbing cool and clean but regrettably out of reach.

"He is of no use to Arthur, like this. The knights of Camelot will no longer be able to counter Morgause's magic, and I think –"

"You have not been paid to _think_." Orso loosed his weapon – Merlin thought with curious detachment of the swords of Medhir – took one striding step across Merlin's prone body to shove the blade through the center of Cenred's chest.

Cenred gasped, soundlessly, resisting acceptance of the inevitable, but weakly.

The action and its consequence meant nothing to Merlin. He looked, instead, to the dead brown eyes of the witch standing near his feet. Watching her watch him. Also expressionlessly insensitive to the death of her fellow-traitor.

Cenred's body tumbled to the ground beside Merlin. He felt the reverberations through his bruises, and thought distantly that there was something ironic in the similarity of their positions.

"My lady, perhaps you wish to retire for the night," Orso growled to Morgause, not without courtesy.

She blinked. Then turned away absently, without looking at the Saxon. Orso turned away as well, with a single hard downward glance at Merlin.

"Leave him lie where he is," he said to someone Merlin could not see.

He wondered if the commander meant, him or the corpse.

Not much difference, now.

But, no one made any attempt to move him. It occurred to him that if he was left unguarded, he should make some move toward freedom, because. Arthur needed… Arthur… needed…

Arthur had his magic.

And the well was dry.

Merlin had no energy even to roll to his side and curl up. He simply closed his eyes and blocked everything out, every last inch of the howling wasteland of his reality.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"What the hell is _that_?" Gwaine's voice barked, startling the three of them in the torr-chamber. Arthur looked up and met his knight's gaze, half-worried, half-hopeful. "He's back?"

"No," Arthur said shortly. "He's not."

Seated, it was hard to draw a sword, but he managed, using the unique dragon-breathed blade as a cane to push himself upright. Alator drew back from him; Lionel remained in place, but Gwaine was at his side in an instant, ducking under his arm to support him once again.

"Get me out on the hilltop," he snapped. The knight wordlessly obeyed, both of them shuffling clumsily in their haste.

The sun had already set, maybe as much as an hour ago by the fading color of the sky. Leon turned to them, torch in hand; the Saxon messenger was only a short distance, alerting to Arthur's arrival expectantly.

Arthur gripped the gold wire-bound leather hilt of his sword, feeling Merlin's charm against his palm between his glove and the hilt. He turned deliberately away from all of them – Gwaine leaving him to stand alone – and bellowed at the distant peak of Mount Badon.

"Aithusa!"

A rippling snap, like a sail or tent shaken out, and the white dragon landed heavily.

Arthur lifted his hand, luminous blue fingers spread – "What the hell is this?"

The dragon blinked, eyelids clicking over large orange-gold eyes. Then he snarled, twisting sinuously to snort twin jets of rage from his nostrils in the direction of the Saxon camp – and just as abruptly swerving back to focus on the messenger.

"What have you done with my lord?" Aithusa demanded, flames flickering around the words.

The Saxon stumbled backward – into the point of Gwaine's sword, which he recoiled from. Leon switched the torch from his right hand to his left with the clear intention of drawing his own weapon.

"The witch," the messenger managed.

"The witch what," Gwaine demanded, controlled fury.

Arthur limped the few steps toward them; the sickening rasp of pain in his knee distant and cool compared to the hot nausea burning in the center of his chest.

"Cenred said she could handle your Emrys. Control him or –" He caught Arthur's approach from the corner of his eye – and began to draw his sword.

Perhaps at the expression on Arthur's face, intending to defend himself. Perhaps at the evidence of Arthur's current physical weakness, to exploit it in attack, even a suicidal one.

_How is – this – for the men's morale_. Arthur avoided the other's first wild slash with casual ease, and slammed his blade through the messenger's body, all the way to the hilt. Twisting it with a vicious jerk, and ignored the shocked horror of the dead man's expression as he slid off the end of the blade, though the shift of weight almost unbalanced Arthur.

"I'll be going now, sire," Gwaine said, with a dark smile, beginning to back off the hilltop toward the Saxon camp. He unfastened his gold-embroidered crimson cloak, revealing Saxon black-and-leather beneath, and tossing it to Leon.

"Take your men with you," Leon advised swiftly, catching the cloak, but making no move to stop his brother-knight.

"Send 'em after me," Gwaine invited, almost cheerfully. "If I'm not home by morning, Arthur…"

He understood. He'd be doing the same right now, if he wasn't incapable of the mission – and king.

"I'll send the guard round to collect you from the tavern," he replied, though it had been many a long year since such had been necessary for the roguish commoner.

And they all very deliberately did not mention Gwaine's expectant wife or little son. Not now. Gwaine knew.

"All the gods go with him," Leon said quietly, as they watched the dark-clad knight fade into the twilight, down toward the springs. "Arthur, should I send the others, that he meant to lead on this mission?"

"…No. They won't catch him up. And if they're caught, now, it will be more dangerous for Gwaine." Arthur looked back down at his hand – glowing steadfastly blue. True-blue.

Leon took the sword from his left hand, gently, to wipe it clean and return it to the scabbard in his belt.

"If Gwaine isn't back by first light," Arthur continued aloud – and Gwaine wouldn't come back at all without Merlin – "if they're not back, and if Merlin is still alive –" he glanced up at Aithusa – "we're sending the cavalry."

Leon, and Lionel and Alator who'd followed him from the torr, each said a word - his name, or a title of respect. Questioning, protesting, cautioning.

"I can still sit a horse," he said, pulling his glove from his belt, dropping Merlin's charm into it and fitting his glowing fingers into the leather covering. "They can think damn-all when their messenger doesn't return. But I am going to have a few words with Orso, come morning. Aithusa." He spoke over the other men, turning to look up at the white dragon, eagerly intent. "Your order was to remain with me and protect me, is that right? So if I were to lead a charge attacking the camp –"

"I would be honor-bound to accompany you, make sure you survive such a exercise," Aithusa responded. His eyes and teeth gleamed in anticipation and a dragonish glee at having found a loophole in his orders.

"Leon," Arthur said. "I want every horse up here half an hour before first light. Saddled, and every rider ready to fight."

"Yes, my lord." Leon bowed acquiescence. "I'll speak to Percival and Lancelot, if I may? And have someone bring you hot food and water, shortly."

"Thank you," Arthur said.

He was vaguely aware that Alator turned to accompany the knight back down to the foot of the hill, that Lionel stood respectfully silent, waiting to aid him back to the torr to rest. Maybe to try again to persuade Arthur not to send the knights on a cavalry charge – or at least not to accompany them.

But. This was not Camlann, after all.

Arthur bared his teeth at the hidden enemy camp in a fierce grin. Perhaps Merlin could not guarantee his invincibility, but he knew for a certainty, he would not die here.

So if it was, save Merlin or die trying… well, only one of those options was possible, wasn't it.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Merlin," someone said.

A dream. Of course. No one here knew his name, or had any reason to use it.

Because he was still lying bruised and emptied on the stony ground in the middle of the Saxon camp, he could feel that much.

He tested his theory by trying to open his eyes.

And saw, of all things, Gwaine's head on a Saxon's black-and-leather-clad body. Gwaine's mouth spoke again in Gwaine's voice – only it was shaking a bit and he couldn't identify which emotion caused that.

"Hells, Merlin. What did they do to you?"

Hallucination. Or something. He wondered vaguely, how Morgause had accomplished this one. The mandrake, again? A crystal? He had no magic with which to counter even the smallest spell, this time – the bottom of the well was still dry…

"Hey." He felt his shoulder shaken, hands run over the rest of his body in search of something he wasn't sure what. "You're not hurt badly, are you? Can you get up? We're not exactly alone, but if I pretend to be hauling you as the prisoner off somewhere, we might get far enough to make a credible attempt at running for it."

Well, that might answer the question of why they would put such a strange image before his eyes. To see if he was able to escape? To see if any magic remained to aid him?

A strange, foreign voice barked something, not too far away. It seemed to him that he should be able to understand, but he didn't have the energy – or maybe the magic – to try. Gwaine's face looked up, away from Merlin, intent and wary – then sullen and uncooperative as any Saxon soldier. He didn't respond, simply made a very rude gesture at the speaker.

Merlin almost laughed. That was Gwaine, exactly – they were very good. Or perhaps they'd taken the image of his brother from his own mind… he felt all through his head but could find no trace of another's presence.

"Come on, Merlin." Gwaine's voice was a soft plea; evidently the unseen speaker had not considered it worthwhile to answer the insult in a more tangible manner. A gentle hand supported Merlin's head by the back of his neck, pulled him toward upright. "Up you get. Rise and shine."

That made him angry, that they would use _those_ words against him. "Please leave me alone," he said. His words sounded more distinct than they felt, and he found the strength to sit, on his own, without toppling over again. "Haven't you done enough?"

"Haven't I…"

Gwaine's Saxon body squatted before him, the concern on his face so genuine that Merlin had to look away, look at the black night and the blowing torches illuminating the camp. He noticed vaguely that the corpse had been moved, at some point.

"What's been done?" Gwaine asked. "Besides the obvious, of course, you look like hell."

"I _fell_," Merlin said, resentful. "And my _magic_ –" His throat stuck and he couldn't even swallow.

"Your magic?" Gwaine said. "Arthur's hand was glowing blue, we didn't know what that meant…"

Merlin looked at him again. That was _not_ something he knew; how could she know, to have Gwaine say it to him?

"You've. Taken it. From me."

His brother's face held sudden horror, also excruciatingly genuine. "You can't use your magic?" he hissed in a lower voice.

Merlin gave him a puzzled frown. "I haven't got it _to_ use," he reminded Saxon-Gwaine.

"Come on," Gwaine said, suddenly determined, reaching for Merlin's hand. "Stand up. Get up."

Merlin obeyed, simply because he didn't care and it felt easier not to resist.

And it felt odd to stand. He was at once so hollow and light he could have lifted from the ground and floated away, and so heavy it was a chore to drag his feet along. It didn't hurt, really, it was just a distracting lack, like hearing with only one ear, or seeing through only one eye.

"I'm tired," he said, to no one in particular and for no specific reason.

Another voice spoke, again, and he turned as Gwaine did, to watch another Saxon call out something to them that sounded angry. He looked angry, and gestured imperatively toward a tent. The tent where Merlin had been held, if he had to guess.

This time, Gwaine's gesture was placating, and he took Merlin's sleeve to pull him toward the tent.

He followed, reluctant but docile. He didn't want to go in there – what if Morgause was there? what if the wooden box was there? – but as they neared, he could see the corner of a folded blanket on the ground, and a bucket with the telltale glimmer of torchlight on water just below the rim. The box was still there, but the witch wasn't. That was something, at least.

"Rest a bit," Gwaine muttered, pushing him toward the blanket, turning to snatch a horn cup bobbing in the bucket. Drinking first, in an oddly cautious way, then glancing into the cup and smacking his lips, reassured. "No magic, huh? At all? Are you sure?"

Merlin rounded on him, unsteady but angry, and snarled, "_Astrice_!" pushing his palm toward Saxon-Gwaine, who stumbled back momentarily in a shocked panic – but not because the magic had been the least bit effective. "Are you satisfied now?" Merlin demanded, panting and trembling and so terribly dusty-dry inside. "Go away and leave me alone."

"No, mate." Gwaine's grin was a pale version of his usual. "That's not the way I pay off my debts, remember? Any minute now you'll remember how clever and skillful and stealthy I can be when I have to –"

Merlin couldn't help it. He snorted derisively.

"Geoffrey's grand-niece," Gwaine said, pointing at him as he straightened with the horn cup of water re-filled in his hand. "Huh? You couldn't have gotten out that library window without being caught, clumsy as you are. Here." He put the cup into Merlin's hand. "Any minute now you'll realize I really am here… and maybe then we can figure out what we're going to do. Just rest." He spun to look round as much of the camp as he could from the mouth of the tent, and drew the last section of canvas mostly closed.

"No," Merlin said. He did drink the water, though, as Gwaine gave him a puzzled over-the-shoulder look. "Not while that thing is in here."

The box. The creature inside. Sitting innocuously crooked on the grass and he considered trying to incinerate it with a fire-spell, if it wouldn't feel so appallingly _wrong_ when nothing happened.

"Why? What's in it?" Gwaine said, striding past Merlin to lift the latch and flip the lid off with one deft movement of the toe of his boot.

Gwaine! He managed not to shout – not to draw attention – leaping, staggering, into Gwaine's broad back, yanking the knight's sword in a single clumsy pull. Turning and shoving the other man – and spinning to slice the launching darkness into two squelching, quivering halves.

He collapsed to his knees as dark viscous liquid oozed into the ground, absorbed, leaving two rapidly-shriveling skins behind.

Gwaine's voice swore. His Saxon boot kicked at the closer husk, and it dissolved into fine powder that also absorbed into the dim rocky ground. "What was that thing?"

Merlin felt stupid, suddenly. Gwaine had no magic, he would not be in danger from the creature – and this wasn't really Gwaine. Perhaps the ordinary soldier the witch had given Gwaine's face and voice and – sword, actually; he recognized the weapon in his hand before letting the other man take it gently from his grip – didn't know.

"_Gean canach_," he said, expressionlessly repeating the words that came into his mind at his recognition of the symbol on the box's lid. "A fearsome creature forged, it is said, by the tears of the earth mother Nemaine. It devours the magic of others, draining them of their power. Through the _face_… evidently… though that detail was news to me." Although, not really surprised that Morgause knew where to find one, or had one in her possession.

Gwaine's fingers put pressure on Merlin's chin, turning his head til he met the other's eyes, scanning him for… what, he didn't know. Injury, evidence of the creature's attack, maybe.

"Damn _bastards_," Gwaine spat.

And the furious loathing Merlin heard was _genuine_.

He turned and crawled to the blanket, not bothering to unfold it, but simply stretching his bruises on the ground again and pillowing his head on the material. So. Tired.

The lid of the box closed behind him. He thought that odd. It was what Gwaine would do, to keep any stray enemy from noticing immediately that it was empty – but this wasn't really Gwaine. Was it.

Gwaine's voice said, way too softly for the rough knight, "Go ahead and sleep, Merlin, if you need to. I'll stay and keep watch, and when you're ready… we'll go back to Arthur."

"Why," he mumbled against the rough scratchy wool of the blanket. "No use – no magic." He felt a hand again, light on the back of his head, ruffling his hair.

"You know I hate to have to agree with Arthur about anything, little brother… but you are an idiot, sometimes."

He opened one eye to glare at Saxon-Gwaine, who gave him a wry-melancholy grin.

"It's not your magic that we love, or need. It's _you_, Merlin."

Consciousness drifted, as he considered the words. The truth of them. And why they would be said by an enemy. And he heard Gwaine's voice say one more thing, on a low quiet sigh.

"So come back to us, my friend. Won't you."

**A/N: Merlin's spell **_**Astrice**_**! is used in several eps as a common attack, translates, "I strike"; results similar to a violent shove. Also, some dialogue and the gean canach spell from ep.5.12 "The Diamond of the Day".**

**Fairly random thought. It occurred to me, writing this, how often Merlin and Gaius are discussing some bit of dark magic that was **_**almost**_** entirely wiped out by the Purge. And how, maybe it was lucky that Merlin didn't have to face his and Arthur's enemies, as young as they both were, with **_**more**_** dark magic running rampant… If only Uther had focused his efforts on that stuff, rather than innocent druids and so on, huh?**


	18. The Cavalry

**Chapter 18: The Cavalry**

The day struggled toward being.

Arthur was tired; he hadn't gotten much sleep. The torr was never exactly quiet, and he kept expecting – hoping, rather – Gwaine to arrive with the man who was brother to them both.

In the pre-dawn darkness, he ate because food was brought to him, and washed very deliberately with very cold water. It didn't help much.

He faced the dark hillside, gray-glimmer in the east toward the enemy camp, with grim resolution, rather than the optimistic energy he was used to picking up from Merlin, as they faced action or danger together. Fitting his glove carefully over his right hand – still glowing that serene steadfast blue – he listened to the sounds of the gathering cavalry, oddly disembodied in the dark.

Leon materialized at his side, the reins of two mounts in his hand. "Sire," he said. A courtesy.

"Gwaine?" Arthur said, pretending that the glove needed a tighter fit over his fingers.

"No sign." Leon hesitated briefly. "And Merlin?"

"Alator thought – and Aithusa didn't disagree – that my hand would return to normal if he…" Arthur couldn't say the word.

"So he's still alive."

He tried to make his noise of corroboration sound cheerful. Because the Saxons had held Merlin captive now for eighteen hours. And his hand was glowing _blue_.

Whatever they had done, whatever they were doing to Merlin – it had worked.

"Aithusa?" Leon said.

"Will join us as we ride out," Arthur answered. "I don't imagine we'll take the Saxons completely by surprise, but Aithusa will be what they – hopefully – don't see coming. If we strike fast and hard, they may not have the time to assemble an effective defense." He sensed the other men join him, and dropped his hand to meet Percival's gaze, then Lancelot's. "I have no idea of Gwaine, but Aithusa should be able to locate Merlin, in the confusion – and we'll pull back again once we've got him."

He didn't have to say, _and not before_. They understood. He turned to face his father-in-law.

"Lionel," he said, putting one hand on the older man's shoulder, a gesture that was readily returned. "Our last contingent should arrive mid-morning. If the worst happens and we don't return, and we don't take enough of them with us to make them reconsider their campaign, you still ought to be able to hold here several more days – and then they ought to be hurting for supplies. Regardless, I trust your judgment."

"And I yours," Lord Lionel said. "If anyone can make such a maneuver succeed, it is you, King Arthur. I will await your return." He stepped back.

Arthur's throat hurt. He hadn't often faced such situations of conflict – as when they'd captured Caerleon – without Merlin; he believed in his men and they believed in him. They were capable of victory today, that he trusted.

But together with Merlin he felt able to do more. Anything. With Merlin he felt unafraid. But Merlin wasn't here; if he was, this would not be necessary.

It wasn't, he told himself, and it felt true, a wild-goose rescue, based on his feelings and emotions. Yes there was anger and fear, but if Merlin had been killed outright, Arthur believed he would still be risking this very attack. They couldn't withstand the onslaught of the witch's magic without him, probably, Gilli and Alator would not be a match for her strength or cruelty, if Aithusa had not been able to kill her before meeting his own death.

But that was beside the point, now. Merlin was alive. Therefore, they would rescue him. And perhaps the prophecy which said – inside-out and turned around – that he wouldn't die _here_, did serve to instill confidence.

Once, held down on a rough plank table by these three men, and his lost brother, the sorcerer had pleaded with Arthur to let him go, let him die, let him stop fighting. _You can do it on your own; you have your queen, your knights…_

_ I don't want to do it without you, Merlin. You've been through so much, you've given so much – to me, to Camelot. You deserve to see it through to the end…_

He still felt that. To win the battle, win the war, and lose Merlin…

Unthinkable.

Arthur turned to the nearer of the two horses Leon had brought, and gripped the saddle, readying himself for the one-legged leap and awkward, painful scramble to a secure seat.

"If I may, sire," Percival said quietly.

He glanced over his shoulder to see the strong knight kneeling just behind him to grip his good leg at the top of his boot; tensing his muscles, he hopped and Percival gave him an easy leg up. It was the work of a moment to gather his reins, adjust his seat in the saddle and his boots in the stirrups. His knee ached and possibly he'd be unable to keep his place if the horse reared suddenly or bucked; he guessed they'd find out.

"Sir Leon," he said down to the former scout, who would remain on foot as long as a dismounted guide was necessary in the early-morning gloom. "Lead us out."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …*….. …..*…..

He woke to the sound of a great deep voice repeating his name commandingly, insistently.

_Merlin_.

Disoriented, he answered, _Leave me alone, can't I rest in peace before they sacrifice me?_

_ They won't kill you, Merlin, unless and until they're ready to face my wrath. When your command breaks and I rain hell itself down on all of them._

Briefly and objectively he considered. Imagining such a scene… not at Dinas Emrys, but at Badon.

_ Unless you change your mind and allow me to come for you._

He felt the echo of the pain of a shredded wing, heard the roar of powerless rage, smelled the particular defilement of fire and blood, that he had experienced when linked to the dying Kilgarrah. _No. Arthur needs you and – _And I, he thought privately, have no magic. And today the witch will certainly take advantage of that.

_Very well. Then I must do what I must do_, Aithusa responded.

What did that mean? His eyes flew open. Well, perhaps he had no use to Arthur's army, this way, but at the very least he could remove himself from the equation, being held hostage against his king.

It was still dark, but maybe not completely, anymore. He rolled to his side, with difficulty and not a few winces over the stiff ache permeating and slowing his body. Though nothing was broken… he repeated firmly, to himself, nothing's broken.

But Gwaine was gone. Or, Saxon-Gwaine, whoever it was that had knelt, crouched, sat at the partially-blocked tent opening. All night, he thought.

Change of the guard, maybe. So probably now was a good time to act, before another one came.

He managed to push himself up from the rocky ground. It felt decidedly odd, being magic-less. Like being suddenly unable to smell, the earth and his own sweat - or taste, coppery tang of blood, odd sulfurish residue from the water he'd drunk from the springs in the valley – or to see in color.

_But it's early. And no one sees in color til the sun rises, isn't that so? Light of sun…_

The edges of tent-canvas brightened, a bit – someone was coming, and with a torch.

Merlin straightened hurriedly – and staggered though he felt neither weak nor dizzy, exactly. But he was more or less upright, when the torch entered the tent first, followed by the dark-cloaked form of the blonde-haired witch.

For a moment she stared at him, her full attention occupied with evaluating him, somehow, as if he'd surprised her, or she'd forgotten him til that moment, again. Then she focused entirely on the wooden box. Stalking to it, she knelt to unlatch and open it and gaze blankly into empty depths. Then she rose and faced him again.

Almost he took a step or two of retreat, knowing himself helpless, knowing she knew it as well, but for the knowledge that he'd probably end up falling, and an odd shred of remaining dignity wouldn't allow that.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

"Where is who?" he said in wary confusion. The creature from the box? or did she mean Saxon-Gwaine, or even Cenred?

She stalked past him to the tent's entrance, eyes on the ground, then abruptly whirled. "My pet my pet," she said, in a hissing monotone. "My magic my things my _pet_."

And this, Arthur would be facing.

But. If she killed him now, and Aithusa came for her – brief dizzying memory of a morning on an isle in the courtyard in the rain when he'd told Aithusa _no_; a second flash of a throne room and glittering glass and Aithusa's voice, _the witch lives is she a threat… not anymore…_

No more magic, in this battle, no more dragons. Possibly, the numbers of warriors evened. Arthur held the high ground – no need to retreat to Camlann. Victory.

He opened his mouth to say what would surely draw her murderous ire and begin that fatal sequence of events – _I killed it_ –

And she twitched, as two feet of bright bloody steel parted her cloak, dead-center of her chest.

Merlin flinched, seeing for an instant another blonde woman with another blade through her body – but Isolde was far from here, with Tristan; this woman was an enemy, not a friend – then Gwaine's face appeared over Morgause's shoulder. The knight's expression was grim defiance as he pushed inside the tent, his sword impaling the witch.

She lifted her hands to grasp the blade protruding from her body – anger not fear, rage not pain – "I was a high priestess we cannot be so easily killed!"

A priestess of the old religion. Gaius' voice saying of the questing beast, _it carries the power of life and death itself_… Kilgarrah's voice saying, _the magic of the earth itself…_

In a moment she'd free herself from the nuisance of the sword and kill Gwaine likely and then what would she do unhinged and powerful then what –

Without thinking, he whispered urgently, "_Bregdan anweald gefeluec_!"

The well was dry. But he felt the moment of dawn, even behind the mountains, magic rising naturally, and he reached _deeper_.

A wisp of magic rose to his call – and disappeared, as Gwaine's sword sparked blue – brief, but effective. The spark reflected on the witch's hands – ironic, that – her eyes and open mouth deep pools of horror and agony.

And, possibly, relief.

The torch fell from her hand, bounced once on the rocky ground, rolled once.

Her body dropped as life left it – Gwaine's expression astonishment as he stared at his sword leaving her body; probably he'd seen that spark, too.

"The hell?" he said, an incomplete question, then looked at Merlin. "Was that you? Is your magic back?"

He blinked against his vision's inclination to stutter and tilt sideways. "Yes – no – I don't know?"

It seemed important to retrieve the torch; he reached for it and the ground slammed into his knees, the heel of his hand gouging a furrow in the ground three inches shy of the torch as his upper body tipped.

"Hold it! Damn, Merlin, couldn't get you to move at all last night, and now you're pitching about like a rudderless rowboat!" Gwaine deposited his bloody sword and a bundle of dark material hastily on the ground, reaching to steady him with one hand and scoop up the torch with the other before it snuffed itself in the dust.

Merlin compromised what his mind wanted to do with what his body insisted was necessary, and thumped down to sitting on his rear – and one of the bruises, as it turned out.

"Gwaine," he said. Stupidly.

"At your service," his brother replied lightly. He propped the torch in the open box for safe-keeping, and turned to rummage in his bundle.

"You're here," Merlin said. Still, stupidly.

"Surprise, surprise." Gwaine flashed him his best devil-may-care grin, and Merlin's face stretched and cracked to return it, involuntarily.

"You're really here," he repeated.

Gwaine hummed agreement, handing him a chunk of something – Merlin stared at it a moment before identifying it as bread. "Question is, are you here?"

The knight's dark eyes were keen, and Merlin took a moment to close his eyes for a swift and almost impersonal self-examination, gnawing hungrily at the bread the while.

"Mostly?" he concluded, with as much certainty as he could muster, which wasn't much.

"The magic?" Gwaine went on, in a low voice.

Merlin shook his head, focused on getting food inside him for the first time in – he squinted at the slice of medium-gray sky outside the tent – twenty-four hours. "I don't know. Maybe. Not yet, at least, and… maybe not."

"Okay." Gwaine accepted the non-answer and turned to his bundle to shake out a tunic and cloak. "Eat up and have some water, but do it fast, we haven't got much time. Someone will be coming for _her_, sooner or later, I'm sure."

Merlin nodded, swallowing the last of the bread – which felt uneasy in his stomach, like it wanted to reassemble itself into a lump again, somehow. "Does –" he cleared his throat and crawled for the water-bucket. "Does Arthur know you came?"

"Yep." Gwaine shook his hair back with a cocky smile. "Though, he wasn't too happy about the _alone_ part – he would've come with me except he hurt his knee again-" Merlin glanced at him sharply. "No, just twisted it, like before." Gwaine stretched to wipe his blade on the witch's cloak, then straightened and stepped to Merlin. "Can you stand? All right, let's get this jacket off – and this tunic on – there."

He furled the cloak around Merlin's shoulders – it stank but he made no protest – looking down, his blue shirt was covered, the brown of his trousers probably dark enough to draw no notice, and there was a hood, which wouldn't be suspicious, raised, for a few more hours.

"Let's get a little of this blood off you, though," Gwaine said, wetting a corner of the cloak from the horned cup and dabbing rough-gentle at Merlin's face – which evidently bore cuts and bruises also, by the feel. "Okay. You look almost human, again." Sly grin.

"Almost," Merlin agreed.

"We'll get you a sword at the first opportunity," Gwaine promised, and retrieved the torch. "Ready?"

Outside the tent, the eastern sky was noticeably lightening beyond the further peaks toward the coast. Maybe half the men in the camp roused and moving about, as he glanced around, but sleepy and grouchy and unfriendly were the few expressions turned their way; most seemed pre-occupied with their tasks.

"Any chance we could escape in the direction of the commander?" Merlin said, stumbling as he followed Gwaine slowly.

"Now, that is an opportunity I wouldn't mind, myself," Gwaine agreed, sauntering deliberately so it would be easy for Merlin to keep up. He turned his head constantly but casually, alert to anyone taking inconvenient notice of them. "But I think, this time we ought to –"

"_Heya_!"

The shout was loud, and presumptive; they didn't stop, but Merlin instinctively turned to the voice.

An older man, gray bristle on head and jaw, short but barrel-bodied. "Just where do you think you two are off to?" he asked, in the Saxon tongue.

Merlin opted for a confident but nonspecific gesture. The edge of the camp was thirty yards away; they could skirt the mountain between the camp and Torr Badon, slog their way through the springs…

"I don't think so," the man returned with a sneer. "Every extra man is needed up at the –" A horn sounded, interrupting, and he swiveled around.

"Come on now's our chance!" Gwaine hissed in Merlin's ear.

Something made him hesitate. Instinct, maybe. The curiosity Gaius and Arthur had often decried.

"They're attacking?" the Saxon said, as if to himself. Softly, incredulously. Then he yanked his sword and roared out indiscriminately to the rest of the camp, stumbling to the horn's alert from the surrounding tents. "They're attacking!" Gwaine raised his weapon and gave a wordless half-hearted cry as most of the others did, beginning to stream to the west.

"What is happening?" the knight continued in a murmur, once he was satisfied no one had discovered them.

Merlin didn't bother with the act. "We're attacking," he said.

Gwaine swore foully, probably thinking the same thing. Arthur wouldn't have _sent_ his men on such a mission.

He would be _leading_ them.

Whump, whump, whump. Roar and crackle – sudden bright light rose from a row of flaming tents, reflected from the white scales on Aithusa's belly.

The enemy darted like ants over their scattered hill. Through a flash of bodies Merlin saw the same crossbow-catapult contraption that had fired the net – aimed - loosed –

_Aithusa_! Merlin roared in an agony of fury over the dragon's disobedience, sudden hope and fear.

The dragon flinched at Merlin's telepathic shout as the machine recoiled. Merlin's heart was in his throat – the spreading net did not have time to fully deploy, did not strike the white dragon squarely, but.

It was enough. And Merlin's warning shout, not enough.

One wing tangled – Merlin thought – Aithusa spiraled downward, struggling against the inexorable pull of the earth. Not an outright fall, at least, but the ground shuddered under their boots when Aithusa disappeared from sight.

"No!" He couldn't help crying out himself, at the impact. Gwaine's hand squeezed his elbow in sympathy and support.

Then, fire gouted from the position where the dragon had fallen. Alive, at least. But if there were injuries – if he was unable to fly – Merlin gulped a relieved breath compulsively, bypassed speech, and leaped into the mind and senses of his kin.

There was helpless rage but not much pain, though Aithusa would need assistance to win free of the net.

Beside him, Gwaine said, "Is he –"

"Uninjured, mostly – able to fly – tangled – fighting back," Merlin reported, opening his eyes and swaying slightly against the knight's hand.

"I'll go to him," Gwaine decided.

"Gwaine –"

"You get to Arthur!" the knight ordered, beginning to back away in the direction of the fallen dragon. "He's come for you – once you join them, they can fall back!"

"Be careful!" Merlin called after him, and he waved a hand as he turned to run in earnest. _Gwaine is coming_! he sent to Aithusa. _When you're free – take him back to Badon!_

_Is that an order, my lord_? Aithusa snarled, but he recognized the white dragon's defiance was mostly residual, directed at the enemies attacking him, not Merlin.

He was in no mood to be patient, either, beginning a staggering trot westward in the direction of the noise of combat. _If it has to be_!

Twice he fell. Which drew several swift glances from those around him - disgust and impatience, though, not suspicion – and the second time, someone actually trod on his hand. Flashes of red showed in the melee – those gorgeous damn cloaks – his feet stuttered to a stop.

There, Arthur Pendragon, in the thick of the battle. Like the very god of war himself, golden hair and crimson tunic and silver sword.

He'd told Merlin, more than once, that he did not consider himself a cavalryman, but today he was making himself a liar. Sword in his right hand, reins in his left, keeping his seat with superb balance as his mount danced and pivoted, the sword danced and swooped. Black-clad enemies fell, spun to stagger and fall.

There would never be another like him. Merlin felt his heart would burst with pride.

And became aware of a secondary magnetizing pull to his king – _both become – lead me out_… He stumbled forward, unarmed and unafraid – in a bit of a lull, when the Saxons individually hesitated to attack.

Arthur rounded on him, sword raised –

And Merlin smiled.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Pity they didn't have lances. Or spears.

The Saxon horn sounded when they were still twenty paces away, and Arthur spurred his mount from an easy trot to a flat-out run, followed a second later by his knights just behind him, aware of Aithusa swooping down.

They had to strike as far into the camp as they could as hard and as fast as they could without being surrounded, leave Merlin to his dragon kin and Morgause to both or either of them. Arthur and the knights a-horseback were, for the most part, a distraction for the dragon's attack. Create chaos. A crippling blow to the enemy's superior forces, before they retreated again. And that, not until they had Merlin back.

The black-clad enemy were numerous, as well as absolutely disorganized, caught by surprise as they were, and therefore disagreeably difficult to engage.

But. Today, Arthur was invincible. No arrow or javelin could reach him, no sword-strike weaken him – he was aware, in a distant way, that the scabbard was not a _shield_, but he was past trifling details, now.

And when a collective gasp went up, and either side paused and fell back a pace to watch the white dragon plummet earth-ward, he allowed no despair to touch him.

Arthur fought all the harder.

He'd burn every last tent, to find Merlin himself. He'd take Morgause, Orso, and Cenred on together, if he had to.

Lionel held the hill. Guinevere would raise Lucan to hold Camelot. And today, he would break the Saxons here – after all, he could not die trying, could he.

He'd lost count of the enemy, the strokes of the dragonsword. Which would soon begin to feel heavy in his hand. His right leg burned distantly, but he felt in no danger of losing his seat in the saddle due to weakness. Sweat rolled down his face – he chopped down at a sudden attack – smoke and heat rolled before the gusting breeze across the camp. His lungs burned from panting breaths and the exultant defiance of taking his victory.

As his mount wheeled, he saw the first half-sliver of morning sunlight, though the eastward mountains delayed its true rising somewhat. He lifted his sword to strike one last black-clad Saxon who had drifted close.

Black cloak – _druid's cloak_, his mind said – filthy, bruised, bearded face –

Exquisitely unique blue eyes, smiling.

Arthur lowered his blade, not quite willing to believe his own eyes, then let out an incredulous bark of laughter. "Merlin!"

"Sire."

He kicked free of a stirrup – if Merlin was here and upright, he was fine enough for now – keeping an eye out for other attackers from the melee of fighters and fires. "Get up here."

Merlin used the stirrup, but seemed to have trouble dragging himself up behind Arthur's saddle; the horse was skittish and not helping. Arthur grabbed a handful of his friend's clothing to haul him up to relative safety.

"Leon!" he bellowed, seeing his senior knight fell the only current attacker he faced. Leon alerted to the call – found them with his eyes – and grinned through the battle-grime that accumulated on all of them. "We've got him – fall back!"

The knight turned to pass the shouted order on; the wave of crimson warriors began to recede, but slowly. Arthur turned his horse's head in a slightly different direction, raising his sword in readiness for any Saxon who did not scamper out of his way, and finding his loose stirrup again with his boot as Merlin gripped his tunic and chainmail for balance.

"What are you doing?" he panted in Arthur's ear.

"Didn't you see?" he returned, scanning the disordered few he could see, for any minded and able to attack a fast-moving horseman. "They shot Aithusa down."

"We don't need to – Gwaine will –"

Ahead of them, a blur of rippling light erupted from the ground like a hundred oil-soaked tents all gone up in flame at once. Arthur reined in as Aithusa sinuously twisted in midair to plunge down again, snarling and scattering dragonfire.

"Gwaine?" Arthur said, again incredulously pleased. "He made it?"

" 'Thusa says he wants to fight."

Arthur thought he could make out the daring knight's figure, just behind the dragon's array of protective skull-spikes. He imagined he could hear Gwaine's war-whoop. _Better him than me. Hells_.

"Tell them to be careful," he said, turning the horse again to head out of the chaos they'd created of this half of the camp, anyway.

"I did."

Arthur guided their mount to dodge another burning tent, to skirt a wagon succumbing to the same destructive force – and a massive shadow stepped in their way, maybe twenty paces ahead. Raised a crossbow.

He blinked. And the bolt hung quivering for a fraction of a second, two feet in front of him, before the horse's momentum brought him up against it; the sharpened head merely clicked against his tunic-covered chainmail, before being brushed aside like a stray lance-splinter.

That enchantment held. He smiled grimly to himself, and held his course to run the enemy down.

The Saxon reloaded, and dropped his aim.

Arthur's heard thumped once – his hand twitched on the rein reflexively, but too late. The horse threw its head back, whinnying in agony. It's gait stuttered – they went down.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin never saw what hit them. One moment he was clinging to Arthur like a lifeline in a storm, the next he was flung free.

He hit the ground hard, and rolled. Consciousness was lost for a moment – and the ability to breathe, a bit longer. Desperately he tried to right himself, to find Arthur even visually; Arthur's safety was worth more to him than a meager lungful of air –

A scream struck his ears, and every nerve he possessed. He rolled again to see Arthur – the actual rider of the horse, boots in the stirrups – pinned under the writhing, bleeding, dying beast, scrabbling for freedom. His already-injured right leg, pinned.

Merlin fought for breath. Something. He had to do something.

A black shadow of a man loomed, stalking toward them, taking his time. The crossbow clattered to the ground; a broadsword was drawn with an ominous rasp.

The king sobbed, unaware, as the horse's thrashing finally freed him. He clawed at the ground to get further away, his hand still inches from the hilt of the sword he'd lost in the fall. Merlin's attempt to rise nearly whited his vision – something _something –_

The dragonsword shifted, springing to Arthur's right hand. The king rolled, using his left leg to push himself up, facing the approaching enemy with raised sword, left hand out to aid his crippled balance.

Merlin fought his battered body – and _breathed_ – and managed to gain his feet with a lurch just as the Saxon –

Thick grizzled moustaches, longer than the beard – Orso - _that is an opportunity I wouldn't mind, myself –_

Reached Arthur.

The Saxon swung his great-sword, two-handed. _CLANG_! Arthur fell back, literally, but managed to spin and aim a delaying slice at the big man's shins. He reeled upright as Orso jumped back, but his weight was still on only one leg.

Merlin's hands were empty. The well of his magic was empty.

Past and present swirled for a disorienting moment. The dragonlords' blade in Arthur's hand, Merlin's magic bound by a promise, fire and blood and helplessness and determination through the pain. Clumsy and slow, Merlin stooped and grasped a rock in either hand.

Orso raised his broadsword to hammer blow after blow on Arthur, who parried by sheer skill, gave way one limping step after another. Merlin circled a bit, then flung the rock in his right hand as hard as he could.

It bounced off Orso's temple. He swung about, surprised, to defend against an enemy that stood a dozen paces away – and Arthur took advantage, slicing the Saxon's off-leg with a quick cut, drawing blood and weakening the other.

Orso saw Merlin; his eyes widened, then narrowed in a glare with a clear message – _you're next_. Even as he slashed carelessly at Arthur, an aimless blow at neck-height that had the king stumbling back. With a bellow of triumph, the Saxon drew his hilt back to his ear for a stabbing-blow – Merlin transferred his second rock and threw it, just as Orso lunged.

It struck – he flinched – Arthur spun to avoid the blow rather than catch it on his sword, and Orso stumbled, unbalanced at the lack of resistance.

Arthur completed his turn with a move Merlin had seen him make a dozen times, cutting deeply into the muscle of his opponent's lower back. Orso arched in reactive pain, his yell rising in pitch, rage and pain.

Merlin's hand moved instinctively to shove the Saxon further off-balance, shove him down from this distance, with magic. Arthur's hand rose at the same time, perhaps to aid his own uncertain equilibrium.

Orso stumbled, going to one knee, his sword hand catching himself on the ground.

Arthur leaped, his entire weight behind the shimmering length of dragon-blade – which pierced the commander near the center of his back – a good five inches of steel point glittering down from Orso's chest, in spite of his armor.

The big man writhed, bellowing. Arthur twisted his sword, perhaps even unintentionally as he fought to keep his grip on his weapon, and his footing. Orso shuddered, shook himself like a wet dog, tried to rise. Arthur yanked his blade free of the man's body, maybe intending to strike again –

Merlin couldn't have explained, what made him whirl round. A yell closer than the din of retreating battle. Or something.

Another black-clad enemy, firelight gleaming from bare sweaty scalp, aimed a crossbow at Arthur's back.

"No!" Merlin cried, trying to slow time, catch the shaft, _something_ – perversely, time seemed to speed up, ricochet out of his control. His heart stopped. The bolt stopped, eighteen inches from Arthur's back.

Orso collapsed. Arthur began to turn. The second Saxon alerted to Merlin's shout, swung the crossbow – fired again.

Merlin's hand rose, again of its own accord, an uncertain defense. Arthur shouted, lifting his as well, though he was a dozen paces from either of them. The bolt hissed past; the bowman was flung backward off his feet as if at a blast of instinctive magic.

Movement caught Merlin's attention - caught Arthur's attention also, he saw as he began to turn his head. Another enemy ran to attack, sword raised –

There would be more, such. As the mounted knights of Camelot retreated under Leon's orders. And he and Arthur were unsteadily afoot, and Aithusa was both burdened and distracted with Gwaine and bloodlust.

Merlin swung his hand around – as did Arthur – and this attacker was blasted back, also.

Arthur began to straighten and drop his sword. Merlin turned to see that no further assault threatened his king, at the moment. _How are we ever going to_ –

Someone punched him, just under the lowest curve of his left rib. It felt so _hot_, he gasped and turned – there was no one there. Someone else throwing rocks? Or live coals?

He lifted his hand under the black cloak he still wore, brushed something hard and slender that sent waves of agony ripping through him, neck to knees. Saw, then, another soldier with a crossbow, bent slightly and looking down to reload.

Merlin yelled his pain and frustration, his fear for Arthur, logical or not.

The man twisted in place, dropped the weapon, dropped himself motionless to the ground.

Merlin faced Arthur, just turning back to him, took one step –

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur cursed. Internally, as his battered body fought to draw breath.

Helluva rescue, this was. Merlin already free and disguised to escape – when Arthur got their horse killed, and managed to face the enemy commander himself, on foot and crippled.

He would not have survived, if not for Merlin's intervention. And then, they were surrounded even if most of the disorganized Saxons hadn't yet realized it. Merlin's magic stopped an arrow, flung two soldiers away from their attacks – but he looked like hell himself and how long would it be until –

Arthur swung round to find Merlin on his knees, his expression dazed exhaustion.

But. He would not give up. Ignoring the grinding agony of his knee, he limped toward his friend.

"Come on, Merlin," he managed to gasp out. "Can't rest yet."

Merlin wordlessly extended his right hand – it _shook_ – and without thinking, Arthur switched his sword-hilt to his left hand. The easier to grasp Merlin's, and haul him to his feet to try again to win their freedom.

The sorcerer didn't rise. Gripping Arthur's hand tightly, he ducked his head and murmured a phrase that Arthur was half-a-heartbeat slow to recognize.

Warm breeze rippled their clothing. The world swirled and fractured around him like the reflection in a disturbed puddle, the light of many fires gathering into the light of a few torches.

_Oh, right_, he thought, pleased. _Good idea_.

He blinked, and the ground was solid under his feet – under Merlin's knees too, likely as not – he looked around. Somehow not surprised that they were in the largest chamber of the torr, and alone.

"Should probably go check on the cavalry," he said the first thing that came to his mind, and his voice sounded odd in the sudden stillness, echoing slightly from the stone walls for the chamber. He should go to the hilltop to see if the mounted knights were still fighting to disengage and cover their retreat, or how close they were to returning, if they'd been followed by the enemy to the stronghold or not. Though probably Lord Lionel was keeping a close eye on the situation, and would send men to aid the retreat if it looked necessary.

Merlin didn't respond. He remained on his knees, his head dropped down, a shapeless huddle of stolen black Saxon cloak. Arthur didn't urge him to rise; if the dirt and bruises and weary smudges on his face were anything to go by, his friend had _suffered_ the hospitality of the enemy.

"All right there?" he said, a bit uncertainly. Balancing his weight on his good leg to sheathe his sword again – and hoping that was more permanent than temporary – he prodded gingerly at his injured knee to gauge whether it might hold any of his weight, and for how long, before easing himself to the floor of the chamber.

Merlin lifted his head – with an effort, Arthur saw, and it took a few moments for him to recognize where they were. "It worked," he said, in unsteady surprise. Then focused on Arthur. "S'yer hand… still blue?"

Arthur stared at him. He'd forgotten the phenomena, honestly, since first laying eyes on Merlin again, free as a bird and smiling; he stripped the glove off to check.

"Nope – back to normal," he said, showing Merlin both sides of his hand. "Did Gwaine tell you that? Why did it happen – what did they do to you, anyway?"

Merlin gave him a small, pale version of his beautifully intimate smile. "They tried to take it, my magic," he said. "Thanks for holding on to it for me."

"Not at all," Arthur said. Because _my pleasure_ and _anytime_ were decidedly odd, and probably untrue. "It's back to you, then?"

"So it seems." Merlin shuffled forward, knees and right hand, his left arm held more closely to his body – maybe injured when the horse had been shot out from under them. "Shall I see to your knee again?"

"Only if you're able to," Arthur said. They had time now, he hoped, but it would be better if he could show himself on the hilltop to the returning cavalry, to the remaining troops, moving about and standing on his own strength, though he wouldn't ask more than Merlin could give, now. Whether one of Orso's lieutenants would take over and continue the invasion after the commander's death remained to be seen. "There's no rush."

"Maybe not, but –" The hand Merlin laid on, wrapped around, Arthur's knee, still trembled. Weakly. "I'd like to be able to rest, you know?" He added immediately the words of the spell, and the tight ache eased, receded.

Arthur straightened the joint, bent it again, pushed into the soft tissue around and below his kneecap. "Excellent – thank you, Merlin." His friend settled sideways on one hip. "What about the witch then, did Aithusa –"

"She's dead." Merlin's eyes dropped shut, blinked open again a bit dazedly. "Gwaine killed her… actually."

"But they sure put you through the wringer before that, hm?" Arthur put his hand on his friend's shoulder sympathetically, and gathered his legs under him to rise.

"There's – something I want to tell you," Merlin said. "Arthur, before you go."

"What is that?" Arthur said, pausing in a kneeling position.

"I'm – going to be a father again."

"Freya's expecting?" Arthur gave him a grin and almost punched his shoulder – except that there was probably bruising there, too, hidden under the Saxon cloak. "Congratulations, you old –"

"I want to ask you…" Merlin paused, shook his head as if he couldn't remember what he wanted to say, or couldn't figure out how to properly phrase it. "If you could – if you think of it, when you see her, or – my mother, or –"

Arthur pushed to his feet. "You just rest, Merlin, there'll be time to talk later, all right?" Merlin didn't follow him with his eyes, but let his head sink almost to his chest, as he nodded. "I'll go see where everyone has gotten to. Maybe get you some hot food, hm? Water to wash with?"

Merlin hummed, faintly but agreeably. He shifted to eye the ground longingly, but his arm was still held awkwardly to his body, as far as Arthur could make out under the cloak. Cracked rib or two, maybe.

"I'll be right back," Arthur promised, resolving to have Gilli – or, better yet, Alator – up to have a look over Merlin, along with hot food and fresh water.

Then he jogged – jogged! and it felt _great_ – to the entrance of the torr.

And flinched back in the shadow, hand darting to his sword-hilt at the sight of the milling, dark-clad strangers, wild and hairy with mismatched weaponry and leather armor. He cursed, emphatically, silently. How in all hells had they gotten around them, and how had they subdued Lionel's men so quickly? Leon and Lancelot and Percival would retreat right back into an ambush – the last contingent was expected to arrive from Stawell anytime, what had happened to them? – but maybe Merlin could call Aithusa…

It struck him that the strangers weren't acting as if they anticipated imminent action. Their attention to the northeast track was mild interest, not rabidly eager fascination. Not bloodlust.

Then, a break in the milling warriors.

Lionel, his green tunic not standing out from the crowd as the crimson of Camelot might have. In the company of a man with dark graying hair and a nearly-white beard, his indigo tunic embroidered with silver-white, a crescent moon and six stars.

Caerleon.

**A/N: Spell from ep.1.5 "Lancelot".**

**It's possible that **_**next**_** chapter will **_**not**_** have a cliff-hanger… But I almost left you at the end of Merlin's pov… **

**And, just fyi if you're interested, according to the historian Nennius, Badon was a 3-day battle that included a cavalry charge.**


	19. Healing Focus

**Chapter 19: Healing Focus**

_ Lionel stood in the company of a man with dark graying hair and a nearly-white beard, his indigo tunic embroidered with silver white, a crescent moon and six stars._

_ Caerleon._

Not the Saxons, then. Arthur wasn't sure he was entirely reassured.

The warrior-king had expressed interest in joining this war of defense, but at the moment Arthur's troops were in a exposed position, and Merlin – Arthur felt that he should get back to Merlin sooner rather than later. There was more to the sorcerer's story than the few vague sentences he'd admitted.

Arthur lifted his chin and strode from the torr.

Both older men noticed immediately – Lionel startled, Caerleon pleased in an oddly greedy sort of way. Arthur looked into the man's gray eyes and found no enmity in subterfuge. Here he stood vulnerable, and the barbarian-king completely unconcerned. _I really do think that old jackass is going to honor your agreement_ – yes, it looked like Gwaine was right.

"Sire!" Lionel greeted him. "But I thought –" He turned to look down the track, where the cavalry of Camelot was making good their retreat – more slowly than the charge, as of course there would be wounded among men and mounts, both.

But with Orso and Morgause dead – and Merlin reclaimed - worth it.

"Merlin brought me back," Arthur said. Lionel's eyes rested for a moment on his knee as he joined the two, walking firmly, and Arthur nodded in answer to the question in his father-in-law's eyes.

"King Arthur, well-met," Caerleon rasped a hoarse chuckle. "I'll wager you expected to hear that from me about as much as I ever expected to say it. I carry the same from your queen – and the promise that, if I betrayed you in any way, she'd carve my gizzard for the solstice feast."

"She didn't say that," Lionel said, and Arthur snorted.

"As good as," Caerleon allowed, still with a sly grin. "But please tell me you've saved some of these invaders for us to attend to?"

Arthur looked down and across at his struggling cavalry troops, and felt a pang that he wasn't among them, to aid and encourage. "Lionel's told you how we've fared so far?" he said, and Caerleon jerked his head in an impatient nod. "Our attack this morning was successful, in that we've dispatched their commander, and their magic-user…" _And retrieved our own_, he didn't add aloud.

"But they still outnumber you, and they're still encamped behind that mount?" The other king pointed correctly with one blunt forefinger.

"That's correct."

"By your leave, then, Arthur –" And why did he get the feeling that permission was a formality that Caerleon was willing to ignore? "We'd like to go down and lend a hand." He paused briefly as his men raised a bellow of eager agreement around them. "Guard the recovery of your cavalry, it may be."

Arthur took a deep breath and let it out, and found he didn't much care to try to stop Caerleon, no matter what other considerations of honorable warfare he probably ought to have been weighing.

"By all means," he said, giving the other ruler a half-bow and a gesture of invitation.

Caerleon raised his voice in a bull's bellow to signal his men, and the horde began to race down the hill behind him, brandishing various weapons. Lionel gave Arthur a look with an ironically-raised eyebrow that reminded Arthur of Guinevere, and he allowed a bit of a grin to show in response. And later, when Merlin felt up to it, he could bespeak Bodiver in Stawell with the news.

"Could you take your men –" a double handful of soldiers in Lionys green remained on the hilltop – "to meet the cavalry and return with them? There will be plenty of work for Gilli and Alator, shortly."

"And Merlin?" Lionel said, even as he communicated the orders to his men by gesture.

"Exhausted. He took quite a beating, I think." Arthur grimaced. "He wanted to rest…" And when _Merlin_ voluntarily asked such a thing, it was certain that he was beyond needing it. "If I take him to the hospital tents he'll probably want to do some healers' work, but it might be best for Gilli or Alator to have a look at him, too."

Lionel gave a single decisive nod by way of acknowledgement and farewell, and Arthur watched the troops from Lionys descend the hill, slow and sedate compared to Caerleon's troops, still tearing noisily up the track.

For a moment Arthur worried that his cavalry would assume the same as he had – but the indigo-clad newcomers absorbed into and around the troops of Camelot without pause or violence, that Arthur could see.

He sighed. Perhaps they were done for the day. Perhaps they were _done_. That would be nice.

Arthur retraced his steps back into the torr, finding Merlin just where he left him, looking like he'd succumbed to his weariness and laid himself carefully down right where he sat. Looking almost peaceful, asleep, in spite of the bruises and beard-scruff on his jaw, and the pallor beneath that and –

His steps slowed and halted without conscious intent.

Merlin lay half on his back, legs twisted not-so-comfortably to the side, the cloak fallen away to pool beneath his body. His left hand rested on his side, where protruded–

A strange sort of stick.

Not an arrow, even though that was what it looked like, not an arrow, because that would mean…

Arthur forced his feet to move, and suddenly obedient they rushed stumbling forward and cast him on his knees next to his friend.

Crossbow bolt. And Merlin's fingers, rising and falling unevenly as he breathed, were red-stained. Impossible to tell how badly he was wounded, with that dark Saxon tunic he wore over his blue shirt hiding the color of blood. Low, so extremely painful, probably, but not fatal – not with magical healing available – Arthur hoped.

"Ah, damn, Merlin," he groaned, reaching to turn his friend's face, prior to rousing him.

They couldn't wait – no help would come to them unprompted, and the cavalry would be arriving with their own needs quite soon. He cursed himself, also, for assuming that his friend's uncharacteristic lethargy was down to unsettled magic and a beating, that he hadn't _checked_, in spite of any protest Merlin might have made.

"You idiot – and then you had to heal my _knee_?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Magic. The moment of grasping Arthur's right hand had been a blast to his internal sense that completely overwhelmed the physical awareness of shifting from the camp to the torr.

Now alone, he swam. He floated and reveled. He drowned and surfaced to breathe again – he drank the magic in, wild and unsettled and turbulent as it was.

Even though, whole again, it clarified dulled senses, making his body ache in a deliciously painful way. Making the arrow in his side throb agonizingly sharp as his magic began to shore up his internal self-defense, accelerating what healing could be accomplished, delaying the detrimental effects of the worst wound.

His magic felt at once familiar and wild, as if he needed to supervise this process that had always been part of him. Not unlike deliberately concentrating on breathing, after a time of unusual exertion.

_Merlin… Merlin… _"Merlin!"

_ I am busy_! he responded crossly. Busy not dying. Busy reassembling pieces of his soul.

_ You're back!_

_ Shall I return?_

"Come back!"

He groaned, and heard it internally and externally. The trio of voices were not going to leave him alone. And he rather thought, blocking them out as he'd done before, would result in the opposite effect he desired.

_Bodiver._

_ My lord_! Excited, relieved. _You're back_!

Merlin winced at the title but did not have the energy to dispute it, this time. _Arthur lives, and the others are returning to camp even now, victorious – the Saxon commander and the witch are both dead. I will contact you again in a few hours._

_ Yes, but –_

He blocked the contact to allow the next. _Aithusa. Do as you and Gwaine see fit. I'm fine, I just want to be –_

_ Left alone to rest. _The white dragon's mental voice was amused, sympathetic. Warming and comforting, understanding and forgiving. _Welcome back, brother_.

And now, the third. Most insistent, almost to the point of panicking. And would demand much of him – further action, which would cause further pain… But rightly so. Merlin blinked in the dim bleary torchlight of the torr, shining in a halo through the golden hair of his king, bending over him.

"Merlin! Hell's teeth – are you with me, now?" Arthur demanded. "Can you hear me?"

He willed his eyes to focus, and they obeyed. Sort of. It didn't matter, as Arthur had slipped to the side, and his vision was a bit slow to follow.

Arthur's hands were gentle – but hurt – as they raised him and supported him, much as Gwaine had done in the middle of the Saxon camp. "Why didn't you tell me you'd been _shot_?"

"I forgot?" he said thickly. It hurt to breathe, to move, and he wished neither exercise was necessary.

The king ducked under Merlin's left arm; his right hand around Merlin's ribs pulled skin and muscle against the arrow shaft buried in his flesh and he instinctively pushed with his feet to move away from that touch. Pushed against Arthur, who pushed back and they ended up more or less on their feet, as Merlin hissed a lungful of breath between his teeth. Out and out and out – and up.

"While you were stopping arrows with your magic," Arthur grunted, adjusting the fit of their bodies to bear Merlin's weight comfortably and effectively for as long as it took – and Merlin only wanted to be knocked out and dragged by one foot, maybe. "You decided it would be all right to stop one with your liver, is that it?"

"Kidney," Merlin corrected, obeying Arthur's insistent prodding to shuffle to the passage leading outside. "I think. Th' blood is… dark." He thought of a time long ago, a serket's stinger, the dragon's healing… but Aithusa would be fighting.

They emerged on the hilltop and the sun spun round, blinding him, heating him, unbalancing him, making him loose the trail of any thought in his head.

"Come on now, Merlin," Arthur said in his ear.

"Are you sure this is –" he panted, and one of them whined; he decided forever after he'd blame it on Arthur – "really necessary?"

"Whatever keeps you awake," Arthur growled. Then bellowed, "Hello, the camp! Healer, _now_!"

"My ear," Merlin grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut too against the glare.

Until they stumbled, and Arthur spat out an obscenity, and pain flared through Merlin's right side as the king caught him, leaving him gasping. He blinked past the dark spots of pain in his vision, at white-peaked tents and spring-fed green grass, and men rushing about industriously. His legs and feet resisted him, and he opened his mouth to apologize to Arthur for their behavior.

The ground trembled, and filled his ears with low, pervasive, indiscriminate noise. He felt Arthur twist around and halt, and he hung off his friend's shoulder content to gaze at the sloping dusty track beneath his sloping, dusty boots.

Someone called the king's name. From far away, it seemed to him.

Arthur said, "He's been shot – he's got an arrow in his gut, but Alator or Gilli –"

Interruption. More voices, that didn't belong to his king, so he didn't bother trying to understand what was being said. Footsteps shuffled around them; he saw the boots that made the noises without identifying their owners beyond _friends_.

"Merlin," Arthur said, gently but with the strain of supporting Merlin's weight in his voice, "Percival's going to carry you the rest of the way, all right?"

The world swerved. Next to Arthur's blue eyes and golden beard, Percival's close-cropped head and square jaw set in concern.

"Right." He tried to make it sound cheerful, not exactly sure why that mattered.

His uncooperative lower limbs managed to keep him from falling as Arthur relinquished his place to Percival, until the biggest knight bent to gather them up as well.

Merlin heard someone moan – and Arthur said sharply, "Be careful!"

And Percival said apologetically, "He isn't light."

He agreed. He certainly felt very heavy, suddenly. There were hands below his head, supporting him so he didn't just dangle over Percival's elbow; it eased the muscles of his neck and he was grateful. He felt the jolt of each step the bigger man took, but could see that Percival was holding the injured middle part of his body securely stable, and appreciated that, too.

"Y'all ri'?" he slurred. "All of… you?"

Percival grinned but kept his eyes on the track. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his face, stubble to stubble.

"He'll be fine, Arthur," someone said behind them. "If he's worried about us."

Someone else chuckled shortly, just behind Merlin's head, and he recognized Arthur. "That's our Merlin," the king said.

More steps. More trying to breathe, around the sounds of pain. More jolting interrupted his desire and inclination to drift, seemingly weightless and above his body… he blinked against the brightness of the sky and felt moisture slip from his eyes.

Someone said his name. "How are you doing?"

He grunted around lips bitten shut, and closed his eyes on another set of involuntary tears.

"Almost there – hold on. Leon, go fetch Alator, if you would?"

Merlin heard Arthur shouting, more voices, more noise, and the sense of urgency hurt. He didn't want to feel that anymore, didn't want to feel anything anymore…

"Put him here. Yes, right here – _carefully_."

He managed to keep his gasp mostly soundless, and opened his eyes to see tent fabric above him, Percival arranging his legs, Arthur's shoulder as he bundled a blanket under Merlin's head.

The king looked up to address someone Merlin couldn't see. "Where's Alator? No offense, Gilli, but –"

"No, of course not." If Arthur hadn't said the druid's name, Merlin doubted he would have recognized the voice. "He's with someone else – a head wound, it'll be fatal if Alator doesn't –"

"Fine." Worry always made Arthur brusque. "Can you help him, then?"

Bodies shifting beside him, close and quick, made him feel dizzy, though he lay unmoving on the ground. Then his childhood friend said his name, and he opened his eyes. Gilli's were wide with something like shock; Merlin could feel the healer's fingers low on his left side, and his body tried to curl away from the contact. "My lord, I –" Gilli's face was white as he turned it upward and to the side – where Arthur waited, likely. "I don't think I have the power, for something as bad as –"

"You have to!" Fear made Arthur snarl just so. "Don't tell me that, you have to –"

"Gilli," Merlin said. Trying to take small, slow breaths. "Give me your hand. No, the – other one."

Blood or sweat slipped between their fingers before their grasp held.

That ring. _Fustrendel_. A focus, a… reservoir. Merlin concentrated – pouring a thimbleful from a bucket, fill the conduit – Gilli gasped.

"Are you ready?" Arthur's voice demanded. No one answered; he went on anyway. "I'm going to pull the arrow, are you ready?"

_ Oh hells oh hells oh –_

He grunted as his side exploded with pain, red stars burst against the backs of his eyelids.

Gilli spoke; Merlin vaguely recognized the spell – belatedly began to protest, _Not that one –_

Fire was his element.

Didn't mean he would never get burned. Didn't mean it wouldn't hurt like the seven circles of hell let loose at once, when he did.

Merlin screamed.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin really didn't look that bad.

Arthur told himself.

They were all filthy and exhausted and most blood-smeared from some scratch or cut or scrape, and he'd obviously done battle with his magic in some way on top of being captured and held. Arthur had seen him half a dozen times like this and after a good night's sleep his shy impish grin was sure to re-emerge.

Of course, Arthur had never seen his friend with this sort of battle wound, before.

He was reminded, uneasily, of the feeling he'd experienced, turning from his own first fight-to-the-death to see Merlin down and covered in blood. That terrible uncertainty of how bad was it, that he stomped ruthlessly down.

Not _that_ bad.

Merlin _sounded_, just a bit worse. Half-conscious, by the way he didn't always respond, to Percival carrying him, or Arthur supporting his head, or Leon behind them leading the returning cavalry. Over the track, down the hill to the healers' tents.

Arthur spared a brief vague pang of sympathy for Alator and Gilli, who had their work cut out for them, now.

Worth it though, right? Today was a triumph, a victory. Wasn't it.

But he watched Gilli's hands hover over Merlin's side, gently moving shirt and black Saxon over-tunic, watched his friend flinch in wordless pain from even that light touch. And measured with his eyes, the length of the shaft embedded in the sorcerer's bloody flank, estimating how deeply it might have penetrated.

And when the druid looked up at him with panic widening his light blue eyes, Arthur's heart hurtled down to the soles of his boots so fast it left him breathless. And Merlin's magic, while it might preserve his life and speed the process of recovery, could not heal him.

_ No, it was my death prophesied. Not his. All gods above, not his._

"Gilli," Merlin gasped, his lips white, his eyes sightless, his feet moving on the blanket they'd spread on the ground for him in the corner of an as-yet unoccupied tent.

Arthur went down on his knees next to the druid. Next to both druids.

"Give me your hand…" Gilli reached to obey, but Merlin brushed out of his grasp. "No, the – other one."

Gilli shifted to give both his hands to Merlin, whose eyes glowed golden toward the sloping billowy roof of the tent. The druid healer gasped, and Arthur leaned forward to see that the ring on the man's finger glowed the same hue as Merlin's eyes.

"Is it burning you?" he demanded; behind them, the knights' boots shuffled.

"No, he's – lending me – his magic…"

Arthur remembered Morgana's hand on Merlin's chest, lending his power to her spell to lift the sleeping enchantment laid over the whole citadel. Merlin's hand over Freya's heart – _your magic is so pure – you can have it_ – to lift a curse.

"You can do this," he said to the young druid, a question and a commanding encouragement.

Gilli lifted his hand as Merlin's flopped lifelessly down, gazed blindly at the glowing ring, then met Arthur's eyes and nodded.

"Are you ready?" Arthur said to him. He leaned forward to place one hand on Merlin's ribs – shudder and gasp and cringe – the other poised to grasp the arrow. It occurred to him to ask Leon to count to three – no time for jokes – "I'm going to pull the arrow, _are you ready_?"

Gilli nodded. Merlin's hand found the wrist of the hand he was bracing with, his chin tipped up. Arthur took that as a yes from him as well.

And yanked.

Despising the resistance of the arrow within the flesh of his friend, the strength necessary to free it, the pain he was causing.

Almost he fell back, when the arrow loosened and tore out of Merlin's clothing, and his friend released the breath he'd been holding with an involuntary exclamation of pain. Gilli flung up the tunic and shirt to show thick dark blood oozing down Merlin's pale skin to soak into the blanket beneath him; other bruising was visible, but not a current concern.

Gilli spoke, and laid the glowing ring to Merlin's side in a gesture that was very nearly a slap. A blinding light flared suddenly, and Merlin _screamed_, arching right up off the ground.

Arthur scrambled to catch him, support him, hold him down, whatever was necessary - _Smoke_ puffed out from under Gilli's hand.

More than one voice behind him swore, shocked.

"What the _hell_ –"

Merlin sucked in a ragged breath, then tumbled back down, limply unconscious, as Gilli retreated. But the wound was closed. Angry red, a bit swollen, the point of puncture still clear, but the only blood was already smeared on his skin, not pouring out of the wound any longer.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Gilli babbled, as Arthur checked Merlin's pulse and breathing – rapid and somewhat erratic, but definitely there, and strong. "I'm nowhere near as good as he probably is, I didn't know anything that would be faster or more complete…"

"But you've healed him?" Arthur interrupted. "He'll live?" Merlin's side was almost painfully hot to his touch; he dared not press to gauge his friend's response to even minimally-increased pain.

"Yes. It's crude, but it works. You heat the skin to coagulate the blood, and it cauterizes the wound. Only… there's no way of telling how long before he regains consciousness I'm sorry."

Someone swore again behind them in disbelief. He and Gilli both turned to see that Percival and Leon had been joined by Lancelot and Lord Lionel.

"Is he –" Arthur's father-in-law said.

"He'll be fine," Arthur said brusquely. He turned back to brush his fingers through Merlin's hair, matted with dust and damp with sweat, his own fingers trembling and sticky with blood. "He'll be fine."

_You hear me, Merlin? No disobedience, not this time._

"Gilli," Arthur went on, pushing to his feet. "Find me a knight or soldier who needs to rest but is capable of keeping an eye on another, to sit with Merlin. Then the rest of us –" He noticed that the healer was still much absorbed with his ring… which was still glowing. "You still have access to Merlin's magic?" he asked.

"He gave me… a lot more than that spell needed," Gilli answered, with difficulty.

"Good," Arthur said. "Get to healing then, and use it. There's sure to be plenty who need it, after this morning."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Thank you!" the young soldier gasped. He was almost as pale as the bandage around his head, his fingers still grubby where he tried to grasp the horn cup of water Gwen steadied. "My lady – I am honored."

"You're welcome," she said. "Just rest – and let one of us know if you need anything."

He nodded, closing his eyes, and she straightened, turning to see who else might need water, under the canopy erected for the wounded who'd returned from Badon Hill.

There weren't that many, honestly. She had feared worse, even with three healers there on the field capable of using magic, and skilled in medicine as well. Minor injuries had been bound and borne, likely as not, the men returning to the fight. Life-threatening ones, she presumed, had been healed with magic. The ones who'd made the return trip to Stawell were those who had been saved but were unable to fight again, as well as those whose wounds were somewhere in the middle. Not necessitating magic, but restricted from fighting.

Freya was a stone's toss from her, spooning hot soup for a stocky soldier who looked about to fall asleep. The younger woman paused, laid her wrist absently to her forehead in a gesture of preoccupation and internal, emotional pain, before shaking herself back to the service of the present.

Gwen understood. Freya dealt with the fear of every wife, come true. It wasn't the ultimate bad news of death, but for a sorcerer of Merlin's caliber, that terrible silence that continued – even after the last party of wounded had been able to explain, _capture_ – was undeniably ominous.

What was going on, at Badon Hill?

She felt a bit guilty at the relief of hearing – after hours of nothing – that her husband was safe. Even though Freya accepted her sympathy and support with quiet and desperate gratitude, and no trace of resentment.

Boot-heels clattered on the courtyard flagstones, and Gwen saw Freya look up, past her, as she turned also.

Bodiver. The young knight almost as anxious as they'd been, the past twenty-four hours; she'd spared a sympathy for him as well, having to answer query after query in the negative. He was still pale, expression still serious, but his eyes were alight as they fell on her – then passed her to Freya.

"He's back," Bodiver blurted. "I just heard him."

Freya gave a glad little cry. As the men who were awake and aware raised a collective – though somewhat weak – cheer, Gwen set down her water bucket to make her way across the rows and wrap her arms around her friend. Everyone had known, and everyone had worried, not only for the outcome of the battle, but for the generous-hearted court physician also.

Gwen's own tears dripped even though she was smiling; Freya sobbed twice in relief before she wiped her face with both hands and stepped back from Gwen's embrace with a starry-eyed smile. Noticing that their hostess had heard the news and was moving to join them, Gwen left her hands on the younger woman's shoulders for a moment longer.

"There's more," Bodiver added, and over her shoulder Gwen saw that he was including all three of them in his report. "My lady, might we –"

"Of course," Gwen said. Pulling Freya along with her gently, and inviting Morgana with a glance to accompany them, they left the makeshift hospital tent for a more private corner of the courtyard.

"It was a brief contact," the young knight explained. "He said he'd tell me more later. He said Arthur lives, and the others. They were returning to camp as he spoke to me, having won a victory - they had killed the Saxon commander, and –"

"Arthur lives, and the others," Morgana repeated, interrupting. "Does that mean-"

"Lancelot, Gwaine?" Gwen said. "My father – and Leon and Percival?"

"I – can't say with absolute certainty," Bodiver said, holding out empty palms. "I would think, we can assume their relative safety, any injuries not life-threatening, being treated and tended and so on. Otherwise, I think he would have said."

"They were – returning to camp?" Gwen ventured; she and Freya were holding each other's hands, still tightly. "They had attacked the Saxons, then? To free Merlin, perhaps? And were successful?"

"I haven't any details," Bodiver apologized. "Yes – probably? Only, my lady –"

"With the enemy commander killed…" Gwen said, looking into Freya's dark eyes – into Morgana's green ones. And bit her tongue on a maybe premature assumption of victory, realizing something else. The one enemy who'd been as great a threat as the army's commander, a specific concern for Merlin, and for Morgana.

Bodiver met each of their eyes, hesitated, then focused solely, self-consciously, on Gwen. "My lord Emrys reported…" his voice was soft, but formal, "the sorceress allied with the Saxons… had also been defeated."

Gwen felt immediately torn in two. Between Freya, for whom the news would be an immense relief, for Merlin's sake and safety, and Morgana, whose sister she was.

"Defeated," Morgana whispered, her skin bone-white and her eyes wide. "You mean she was –"

"Killed. So I was told, my lady." Bodiver glanced at Gwen again, anxious and young. She gave him a brief nod of suggestion, turning now to wrap her arms around her sister-in-law. Bodiver gave Freya a slight bow and extended his elbow, which she took to walk a few steps, before the young knight spoke again to her alone.

"Morgana," Gwen said, to jar her from whatever thoughts held her attention, and steered her to a bench beside the outer wall. "Sit here for a moment. Can I get you anything? A little water?" Morgana shook her head, but she was once again looking at the stone of her home, rather than whatever images her memory or imagination presented. Gwen went on, to further and gently remind her of what she still had, rather than what she had lost, "Are _you_ all right? The baby?"

Morgana looked down, rested her hand on the bulge of her belly beneath the coarse apron they all wore, to work with the battle-wounded.

"She'll never see them," Morgana murmured. "Now she'll never… I wrote to her, to my sister, I told her of my daughter, I wanted…"

"I know." Gwen sat beside her on the bench, putting her arm around her and drawing Morgana's head to her shoulder. She understood, a bit. Elyan had rarely gotten to see her children; always she wished the visits were longer and more frequent. But the situation wasn't the same. She wouldn't callously say, _Perhaps it's better this way_, but, "Your children can still know your sister. You can still tell them – good times, bright memories, yes?"

Morgana gave a bitter little sob. "Oh, Gwen. Not many. Not near as many as I'd like. And now – now we have no more chances with her."

Gwen found she was sorry, too. That someone who was clever and talented and loved by someone she was close to, would make choices that were so divisive, no matter the morality of each. She hummed sympathetically, stroking the silky black waves of her sister-in-law's hair with her fingertips. Regret was so much worse to feel, than grief.

"Who do you suppose killed her?" Morgana whispered, and Gwen looked to see that her green eyes were focused on Bodiver and Freya, still in earnest discussion.

Gwen shivered. Perhaps Merlin, perhaps Arthur. Or any one of their close friends – Gwen's father, Freya's brother, Morgana's own husband. She whispered, "Perhaps it's best not to know, not to ask."

Freya put out a hand, suddenly and blindly, to grasp Bodiver's sleeve. He ducked his head to speak to her kindly; she nodded, turned sideways to him and with her eyes on the ground. He glanced up at Gwen – and Morgana – and said something more, which Freya answered with a vague nod.

"What do you suppose she did to him?" Morgana said, lifting her head from Gwen's shoulder. Gwen shook her head, unable to speak through the confusion of emotions that thickened her throat.

After a moment, Freya drew herself up, met Bodiver's gaze squarely – clearly thanked him – and directed her steps back to them, as the young knight turned to head for the gate.

Morgana rose abruptly, stiffening with either defiance or a sense of accepting a fair if harsh judgment. Gwen was just behind her, but Freya, though her warm brown eyes still swam with tears, didn't hesitate to embrace Morgana.

Gwen heard her say, "I'm so sorry for your loss."

Morgana released a half-incredulous sob. "How can you say that?"

Freya kept Morgana's hand; when she seated herself on the bench, they did also, though Gwen glanced toward the hospital tent to see if Finna might be looking in need for her helpers.

"Gwaine and I had a younger brother," Freya said – mostly to Morgana; Gwen already knew this. "I know what it is like to lose a sibling."

Morgana gave a pained snort. "Was your brother anything like my sister?"

Gwen thought Freya probably understood, also. The turmoil of Morgana's sister choosing to be an enemy of her family and kingdom, the pain of Morgana's own loyalties so divided, through no choice of her own.

Freya made a neutral noise, and didn't answer the question. "Gwaine – reacted badly." She took a deep breath; Gwen suddenly hoped Morgana would understand the younger woman was telling them this in confidence. "He drank, and he fought, and… During that time, I feared every day to learn that he had killed someone, that he had fathered a child he had no intention of caring for, that he'd…" Freya shook her head, wiping a tear. "I didn't agree with his choices, I couldn't persuade him to change, no matter the danger of him hurting himself or others, but I loved him anyway. If he'd kept on that path, I still would have loved him, no matter what he'd done. My lady, no one thinks you ought not to have loved your sister. No one will think ill of you for mourning her."

"Merlin will –"

"No, he won't," Freya insisted firmly.

"He _was_ my friend, too," Morgana said, in a tone of clear self-recrimination.

"He can be again," Freya said softly. "He will be." She sat back; they all leaned against the wall, feeling the almost unconscious relaxing of tension – good news, bad news, mourning or rejoicing, at least it was probably _over_.

"Well," Gwen said, finally, catching Finna's eye and smile; the older woman was sympathetic to their moment of rest but it was probably best not to leave her the entire burden of caring for the wounded. "There's still work to be done."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

In the afternoon, when the pace of recovery from the morning's assault had calmed, Arthur flew with Aithusa again.

The white dragon had returned with Gwaine, shortly after Caerleon's men had reached the Saxon camp. Arthur suspected that the knight had gotten carried away in his enthusiasm, or that the dragon had forgotten it was his lord's brother he carried in the thick of the fight, but Gwaine had been white as the tent canvas, cradling his left arm in his right, as he slid clumsily to the ground.

"Took a bit of a tumble," was all he would admit to.

A bit of a tumble, and a double dose of Alator's tonic for pain, Arthur suspected, and he'd left Gwaine dozing beside Merlin's pallet, his arm in a tight construction of bandage-splint-sling.

The sorcerer himself was no better or worse. They'd gotten him to drink enough water to satisfy Gilli; Merlin breathed, he slept. And the rest of them waited. The knights finding enough about the camp to keep them busy, but Arthur was prevented time and again from any menial chore by his well-meaning men, and sitting watching his unconscious friend was driving him nervous.

So he and Aithusa flew.

It was cold, as high as they were, and Arthur was seriously considering removing the chainmail when they descended again. A hot meal, a hot bath…

"Caerleon's done," he said aloud, though he wasn't sure Aithusa would even hear him, or respond.

It was nearly impossible to distinguish the motley indigo from the Saxons' black, the height they were at, but the fighters had disengaged one side from the other. And one troop moved in a manner surprisingly organized for the barbarian-king's men, back down the curved track to Badon.

The camp itself was in disarray. He could hear no sounds of wounded, smell none of the smoke from two dozen different fires – tents, supply wagons, and so on – but the survivors straggling away were fairly clear. Most on the road northeast to the coast, though in several groupings – with at least one clash between two of them that Arthur had witnessed – but others had left the road to head more directly east for the coast. Perhaps anticipating further retaliation and attempting to hide themselves off the road for safety's sake.

"You'll keep an eye out, won't you," Arthur said, "that they don't stay, in dangerous numbers? Cenred's land is going to be an absolute nightmare for the rest of the year; Lancelot's going to have his work cut out for him holding the border against thieves and marauders and helping the refugees who actually need it…"

Aithusa slanted in a slow easy loop; they lost some altitude as well, he thought, though it was hard to tell for sure. He looked instinctively toward Camlann.

"Who's that?" he blurted. A train of men were nearly through the pass, approaching Badon from the direction of Dinas Emrys. The direction of allies, but he still needed to know. "Aithusa, can we fly down and –"

He gulped as the dragon dove, wind whistling through his hair, past his ears – he ducked behind the skull-plate and clung as best he could to Aithusa's neck. Briefly he argued with himself against the cowardice of avoiding the sight of the world hurtling by below his boots to either side – closer and rockier by the second – before giving in and squeezing his eyes shut. No one would know, anyway.

Arthur slammed forward as the great white wings tilted to catch at the air, slowing their forward-and-down dive, scooping rhythmically to drop them both down.

And, he noticed, just out of sight of the pass.

Slowing and regulating his breathing as Aithusa folded his wings, he turned to slide to the ground. The dragon cooperatively dropped his shoulder, but Arthur was careful with his knee on landing.

"Did he tell you, then?" Arthur said, glancing up at Aithusa. "About Camlann?"

The dragon stretched as he often did after carrying a passenger. "He did. It remains his desire to keep you from this pass and plain as long as possible. And as long as there is no threat which you may only face there, I see no need to tempt fate, as it were."

Arthur wondered uncomfortably if Aithusa knew more about the prophecy than they did. If he knew _when_.

"Do you think…" he began. "Merlin asked me once, if the future can be changed. What do you think?"

The dragon made a noise like an amused growl. "You cannot _change_ something which does not yet exist."

"What about, the details of the prophecy," he said. "What about the images in the crystal, then?"

"Perhaps there is but one path of history," Aithusa said, watching down the pass instead of looking at Arthur. "Each step linked inexorably to the next. And, perhaps, the words and events foreseen are but leaves floating on the surface of time. Just as certain to come to pass, but the possibilities of when and how, cause and effect, are limitless."

"Well, which is it?" Arthur said.

"That is a question without an answer." Aithusa blinked great forge-heart eyes down at him, as the first rider came into view thirty paces down the road. "A philosopher's fancy. The past is set, the future is not. The present only is open to our choice."

Arthur watched other riders join the first, though the leader wore Camelot's crimson. Tristan, he thought, and men of Lot's kingdom, as well as Bayard's from Mercia.

He relaxed enough to look up at the dragon and say, "What does that mean?"

The white dragon huffed a smoky chuckle. "Did my lord ever tell you the visions he saw in the crystal of Neahtid? How the decisions resulting from the first led directly to the circumstances of the second, and skewed his perception of the third? It could be asked, had he chosen to respond differently when coming upon the scene of the first, the second might never have come to pass, and so on. But his character made any other choice an impossibility. You have seen this yourself, when fulfilling a prophecy."

He had felt that way, he remembered, as a boy at Dinas Emrys. The only choices open to him, the choices that were honorable and smart, were the ones that led into prophecy. Had other choices been possible? He saw what Aithusa meant.

Before a choice was made, while the decision lay in the future, myriad paths appeared possible. But circumstance and a person's own character perhaps, made only one of those choices probable…

It gave him a headache.

"Suppose the Catha had not given you this prophecy," Aithusa said softly. "Suppose you had gone to Camlann, and suppose you had then perished. Or suppose Merlin had not told you, had instead faced the Saxons alone. Would there have been no battle of Badon Hill, no cavalry charge to save your friend, illogical courage and daring based upon your belief in a homily written hundreds of years ago? Or was it always meant to be so?"

Arthur focused on Tristan's disheveled blonde-and-gray hair and lined face breaking into a smile of recognition, and gave him a brief welcoming wave in return.

He decided from now on, he was going to leave conversations with the dragon, to Merlin.

**A/N: Dialogue from ep.3.11 "The Sorcerer's Shadow".**


	20. And We Won

**Chapter 20: And We Won**

Stew, Merlin decided.

That venison stew his mother had made in Ealdor, whenever Aithusa was successful in hunting, and had taught Freya to make, as well. Or – why stop there – a full feast in Camelot's banquet hall like Uther used to command after a tournament, or to celebrate the princess' birthday. Complete with the head of the boar they served.

This time, he'd woken gradually. No importunate voices calling his name. No unsettled warning from his magic, which was almost satisfyingly full, now. No sense of impending doom to anyone he cared about.

A bit hungry, though.

He sighed and stretched infinitesimally, and nearly welcomed the sore ache throughout his body, as it meant he was alive.

A dark whisper brushed his soul, just beyond the conscious, an echo of a chorus of blended voices. _The Teine Diaga… worthless sonuva_… No. They had come for him, they cared about him, that made him valuable. _Arthur is nothing without Emrys, and Emrys is nothing without magic…_

Someone said, "You know, a flagon of ale would be welcome with these dry stale crumbs." He remembered, with an accompanying sense of calm and rightness, _It's not your magic that we love, or need. It's you…_

A second voice answered, "Another day or two of patience, Gwaine, and we'll all get drunk back in Stawell."

Merlin opened his eyes, and his mouth. "Gwaine…" His view of the firelit tent canvas above him was interrupted by the bearded face and long hair of his brother-in-law. He tried to work some moisture around his mouth to continue, and worry touched Gwaine's eyes before he managed, "And patience, do not go in the same sentence."

"Well." Gwaine gave him a smirk of relief. "Glad to see the witch's pet didn't suck out your sense of humor through your eyeballs."

Merlin tried to hold the grin back; his lips felt so dry they might crack. "It tried, though… Gwaine, thanks for coming for me."

"Thanks for letting me ride your dragon." The smirk deepened into a roguish grin. "Although, you might want to work with him on those left turns."

"Left – what?" He turned his head further, seeing Gwaine's arm bound to his chest with a dingy sling knotted behind his neck. A few steps past him, Percival squatted nonchalantly, cheerful grin showing white in skin still battle-smudged, hands hung loosely over his knees.

"He fell off," Percival informed Merlin, and Gwaine twisted to hurl a crust of bread at the big knight.

"You've got to lean a bit," Merlin said to Gwaine, who shook his head.

"Next time," he promised jokingly.

Muscles all down Merlin's body protested as he lifted his head in preparation to sit up – especially in his left side. He relaxed back momentarily to follow his lowest rib with clumsy fingers, wincing but unsurprised to find a knob of scar tissue, still warmer to the touch than the rest of him. But, for all intents and purposes, closed. Healed. On his second attempt, Gwaine was not able to keep him down with only one good hand, and Merlin was already sitting by the time Percival reached them.

"Thanks for getting me down the hill," Merlin told him, a bit breathlessly, and Percival smiled, retrieving a water-skin to hand to him. "You're out of armor?" He drank greedily, then stopped to breathe and ask, "The battle?"

"Over and won," Gwaine said, so breezily Merlin looked to Percival for confirmation.

"I've never seen anything like it," the big knight admitted. "Arthur, at the head of a cavalry charge, it was… something for the history books, maybe."

"And I bet Arthur slew three hundred men, all on his own," Gwaine exaggerated.

Merlin huffed a careful laugh. "He killed Orso, anyway."

A moment of silence. Then Percival remarked, "That was probably worth three hundred."

"We won't tell him that, though," Gwaine said, grinning.

Merlin's hunger chose that moment to draw his attention audibly, and he followed it up with a groan. "Hells, I'm starving."

"Take it easy, I'll get you some –"

Merlin waved to dissuade Percival from the errand. "Give me a hand up, I'll go myself." Percival reached down and lifted him slowly and gently and Merlin didn't have to exert much effort at all to cooperate. Gwaine stood also, and put a hand on Merlin's shoulder to steady him through a moment of initial dizziness. "Where's Arthur?"

"Right here." Gwaine moved to a section of the tent canvas, held it aside with his body. Called out to the firelit twilight, "Hey boys, look who finally decided to rejoin us."

Merlin reached the opening in time to see his golden-haired king turn from his place at the fire, hands on his hips and not a hint of weakness or pain from his knee. He couldn't help a small sigh of satisfaction, and told Gwaine, "I'll heal your arm for you?"

Gwaine grinned. "Arthur told me you got your magic back, but it can heal on its own."

"You may rethink that," Merlin told him, "Tonight when you're trying to sleep, or tomorrow when…" He broke off as Arthur reached them. "What are we doing tomorrow?" And as the king opened his mouth, Merlin warned, "And do _not_ say, hunting."

Arthur's sideways smile spread with uninhibited pleasure. "What did Gilli give you?" To Gwaine he said, "He's rearing to go, all of a sudden?" The arm he slid around Merlin's shoulders was casual but gentle, and Merlin noticed he wasn't – none of them were – wearing chainmail.

"Thanks for coming to get me, in the camp," he said also to his king, very seriously.

"Thanks for taking me with you when you left," Arthur answered lightly, giving him an affectionate shake

Arthur released him to Leon and Lancelot's congratulations and concerns as the two knights joined them from the campfire area; there were many such, scattered along the valley and the road behind Badon hill in the dusk. Merlin answered them with a shrug and a nod; these fighting men understood that he didn't want to dwell on the events of the last few days, and he appreciated that.

"But, to answer your question, we needn't do much of anything tomorrow," Arthur added. "Caerleon's men arrived in time to finish what we started this morning, and what's left of the Saxons are in full retreat."

Merlin absorbed the information, and couldn't help giving his king a rather sly smirk. "I told you, so."

Arthur understood what he meant, about the barbarian-king he'd captured by happenstance. "Yes, Merlin, you do manage a lucky guess upon occasion," he drawled. "But Orso's dead and Gwaine said you killed Morgause, so –"

"I didn't kill her," he objected. "Gwaine –"

"It was a cooperative effort," the knight said, pushing away from the tent. "Oy, somebody help a crippled soldier to the fireside, and fetch me some dinner."

The other knights began to protest jokingly, but moved collectively in the direction of the fire, leaving Merlin to limp after them at Arthur's side.

"Bayard and Lot both sent reinforcements, with Tristan," Arthur said. "I've half a mind to leave him here with them – and Caerleon said he didn't mind hunting down stragglers for a few more days – but it seems Vortigern's son has once again managed to escape the battle, the weasel."

"No," Merlin told him. They reached the fire where the others knelt, or sprawled but he saw Gilli's cloaked form hurrying toward them from the direction of the cooks' tent, and remained standing. "Cenred's dead. Orso killed him."

Arthur grunted thoughtfully. "Seems rather appropriate," he said. "A traitor betrayed."

Gilli arrived, handing the dish of Merlin's dinner to him breathlessly. "You probably shouldn't be up yet."

"I've had kind of enough of lying on the ground." Merlin shrugged, paying no attention to the temperature of the stew – it was hot and _good_ – as he ate, as quickly as possible. Paying no attention to Gwaine, complaining about the lack of sustenance provided _him_.

"You might find it easier going if you chew some of those larger pieces," Arthur suggested sarcastically, and Merlin grinned without answering.

"If you don't mind," Gilli ventured, "I'd like to take a look at your side. I know you're –" he made a respectful, all-encompassing gestures at Merlin – "court physician of Camelot, but it can be awkward, treating yourself."

"Sure, thanks," Merlin said. "And Gilli, I really appreciate your healing."

"However it was accomplished?" his druid friend said wryly.

Arthur took the emptied dish from Merlin's hand, passing it off to Percival, as Merlin winced and groaned his way out of the black Saxon tunic. Lifting the hem of his now-filthy blue shirt, he turned toward the fire so Gilli could clearly see the area of the arrow-wound.

Awkward silence. Throats cleared, weight shifted.

"What?" Merlin said, pulling the shirt close to his ribs so he could see the wound himself. It was closed nicely, a healthy pink scar that would fade with time, the size of the ball of his thumb.

"Saxon hospitality somewhat lacking?" Leon said, gesturing much as Gilli had done. Merlin realized they were staring at the mottled bruising visible on the rest of his body, as Gilli pressed and tested gently.

"Well – I fell," Merlin said.

Gwaine snorted, having looked away after the first glance. "_I_ fell," he said shortly, poking the fire with a long twig as he sat on his heels. "Hells, Arthur fell off his horse, and I'll bet he's got a nice few bruises. You – that's more than falling, Merlin."

He looked at Arthur, whose expression was carefully neutral, but his blue eyes reflected fire. "If they – did this –" Gilli backed away and Merlin let his shirt drop – "It was while I was already out, I didn't really… feel anything."

And somehow, he read from the expression of every fighter, that didn't make it any better.

"Come," Arthur said softly. "Have a seat."

Thanks to Leon and Lancelot, the ground beneath him and a rock behind him for support was padded with blankets, and all told it was no worse than a dozen other situations they'd found themselves in, over the years. And the sense of relaxation that a more-or-less conclusive victory brought them, was worth it all.

He listened to Arthur begin to give a casual, unhurried account of the battle numbers – supplies remaining, the status of casualties, whether killed or evacuated or wounded-expecting-to-recover – and half-aware of the glances men around them exchanged, he knew it reassured them as well. He let his eyes drop half shut as he indulged the feeling of magic returned, though he figured it would take some time to settle fully.

_Sir Bodiver_, he tried.

_Merlin_! Immediately, and so enthusiastic it hurt his skull and teeth, like a sudden and piercing noise too close to his ears. _What happened? What's going on?_

_The battle is over, and Arthur triumphant_, he returned, patient but succinct, trying not to let his wince show on his face to worry his companions. _Many killed, but none of our senior knights. Tristan is here with men from Bayard and Lot –_

_Caerleon came? Her Majesty was worried she might have made the wrong choice, telling them how to find you._

_He's here._ Merlin set his teeth against the headache that threatened. _They got their chance to end the battle, evidently._

_Oh, good. We worried – and what about you? You didn't answer me, we didn't know what to think!_

_Long story. Involving Morgause._ He sighed. _It's all right now – but could you tell Freya I'm sorry and I love her and I'll see her soon?_

_Yeah – she's right here. _ Bodiver's thought-voice held relief and patient humor. _I was under orders to high-tail it for the ladies when I heard from you again_. Pause. _She says she's glad, and loves you too, and is looking forward to seeing you again._

Merlin was distracted by a nudge from Arthur's shoulder. "We've lost you again?"

"No – sorry – talking to Bodiver," Merlin replied, without opening his eyes.

He heard Gwaine murmur, "Gossiping like a couple of girls," and raised his voice to address his brother-in-law across the fire that flickered against the backs of his eyelids.

"Shall I have him tell Freya you broke your arm falling off the dragon during the battle and won't let me mend it?"

Pause. Gwaine said, subdued, "No." Merlin grinned.

_Her Majesty wants to know, when she can expect you back, if the battle is won?_

Merlin nudged Arthur back. "Gwen is asking, when are you coming home?"

"The twelve-hour trip straight south is still the fastest route to the outpost," Arthur said. "Around by Dinas Emrys and direct to Camelot will take almost a week."

"The accommodations in Stawell will be no better or worse than camping on the road," Lancelot offered, "but there should be sufficient supplies remaining."

"We won't be able to ride all together," Arthur pointed out. He glanced up as two others joined them – Lord Lionel with his tightly-curled gray hair and Tristan with the deep grooves on his lean face; Merlin acknowledged their looks of welcome and good wishes with a quiet nod and smile. "We've three hundred of our own men still here, we can't take a party of that size, including three dozen wounded, down that trail."

"Split up then, as we did coming," Leon suggested. "With Caerleon here as the rear-guard against any possible retaliation by the Saxons –"

Gwaine grunted and muttered, "Wouldn't bet on _that_," causing the other knights to smile.

Merlin listened with half an ear to the suggestions, discussing travel time and supply logistics of splitting the party to take the narrow trail straight south to Stawell, or marching the whole army on the wider road through the pass at Camlann, then Dinas Emrys, and thus to Camelot. Leon and Lionel both volunteered to remain behind to oversee the army's retreat from the battlefield, enabling Arthur to lead a smaller advance party of the victorious army home.

"She's waiting," he murmured to the king's ear in a sing-song way, to further influence Arthur's decision. Shamelessly.

Arthur grunted. "What about you? You going to be able to stay in the saddle if we ride tomorrow? Or shall we tie you to Aithusa to fly you home?"

'_Thusa - you have plans? _The ache returned, but he had to grin at his dragon's grimly humorous response.

_Hunting_.

So the dragon wasn't ready to retire from the White Mountains – and Dinas Emrys had not been Aithusa's home since Ealdor had been Merlin's; dragons were more nomadic, anyway. At least, he amended, in his limited experience, this last one was.

_If you ever command me again, _the dragon added, sounding as stern as Kilgarrah,_ against the instincts and desires you know almost as well as your own –_

_Then you will know that I have good reason,_ Merlin replied firmly, though wincing at the ache in his skull. _Aithusa… I am sorry for offending you. I am sorry you feel I abused my power and our bond._

_No. No, my lord_. Quieter, more subdued. _That is the purpose of the bond, for human intellect and reason to overrule a dragon's reaction, in moments like those. I trust you._

Merlin recalled Kilgarrah's initial antagonism, learning whose son and grandson the prophesied becoming prince was.

_Can you – come talk to me in person?_ he ventured. _This is – hurting my head, actually._

Aithusa's response was non-verbal, but affirmative.

_Bodiver_, he sent. _I will speak to you again in the morning, but you can plan on King Arthur's return before nightfall tomorrow_.

He opened his eyes to meet Arthur's, watching him. "One more goblet of wine, why don't we have, before we change and wash and get into bed with our wives and sleep the sleep of the peaceful carefree… And yes, tie me to the saddle if need be."

Arthur couldn't quite stop the grin that stretched his bearded face, but it dissolved into concentration and concern as Merlin began to move stiffly to get to his feet.

"Aithusa's coming, I need to talk to him," he explained, mostly to Arthur, but sending a glance around the circle of fighters, his friends, at the campfire.

"I'll come with you," Arthur offered.

Merlin allowed a chuckle, as maybe the king intended, at the familiar phrase. How often had that been said, between them? And how many more times, before their lives were over? Because it looked like they were going to give Camlann a pass entirely, on this campaign.

And how badly had they crippled the Saxon army? As long as they could maintain treaties with Lot's kingdom and with Bayard in Mercia, Merlin couldn't see any reason why they would return to these mountains at all, and that fateful pass.

The two of them walked slowly – stiffly, in Merlin's case – down the track where other tents were erected, other campfires with other comrades eating, laughing, reliving the battle, toasting each other and remembering the fallen. Arthur acknowledged quick but heartfelt greetings on every side, though it didn't interrupt their companionship.

"I have something of yours," the king said. He shoved up the left sleeves of his shirt and jacket, dipped into his glove for a black cord wrapped twice around his wrist, and the small silver dragon charm.

"Oh," Merlin said, touching his empty collarbones as the king freed the symbol of his kin. "Thanks – I thought it would be lost somewhere in the Saxon camp."

"No, they brought it as a token for us to – negotiate." Arthur's jaw set as though the word had a sour taste.

"I'm – sorry, Arthur." Merlin fastened the cord around his neck, tucking the charm inside his shirt to rest on his skin.

"For what?" The king gave him a confused look.

"Orso killed Cenred, you killed Orso, Gwaine killed Morgause… I wasn't – much help to you." He kicked at a rock and almost unbalanced himself; Arthur took his elbow lightly, briefly. "Got myself captured, almost lost my magic." He shivered at another echo of the mandrake ritual – _bastardlazy_ \- and, remembering how that enchantment had broken Arthur's father, he resolved not to tell Arthur that detail of his captivity.

"Do you think you –" Arthur's face tightened, just perceptible in the light of the campfire they passed, because Merlin had been looking at him, in that moment. He didn't finish, but he didn't have to; Merlin could guess what he was thinking. Could it have worked, and would it have been… permanent.

"I don't know," he said softly. "The creature they used – it's such dark magic. Like the curse of the bastet, remember?"

"Who could forget?" Arthur said wryly.

"We weren't taught those things. As far as I know, the gean canach swallows not only the magic a person possesses, but also their ability to use magic. Except that I'm… different."

A sly sideways smile, and Arthur slung his arm over Merlin's shoulders. "And how," he drawled. Merlin scoffed and tried to shrug him away without tripping. "But I'm glad for that… and Merlin, I think you're wrong."

He gave his king a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"

"That you weren't much help." They were nearing the edge of the camp, the road dark beyond, and Arthur slowed his steps. "You protected our men while we fought on the hill, both days, and it was because of you – and that damn prophecy – that I decided on and led that cavalry charge. Because of you, Orso killed Cenred, because of you I was in a position and able to kill Orso. Because of you – and with your help – that Gwaine killed Morgause. No, Merlin, I think you're wrong – we owe a great deal of our success here to you."

They'd stopped walking, and Merlin had to keep his mouth from dropping open with an effort.

"If you hadn't gotten, or read, or told me that prophecy, we'd have gone to Camlann – and then, who knows? I might be dead right now, if not for that prophecy."

The beating of the dragon's wings could be felt as well as heard, as he approached. Merlin said, "You sound like you've been talking to Aithusa."

Arthur's lips quirked. "Well, I'll know better after today."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The water in Freya's bucket made tiny concentric wave-circles, though she was carrying it carefully, slowly between the rows of men still lying in the hospital tent.

Half as many as yesterday, and most of these simply because there was no need of them elsewhere. Which was good, and she knew they knew it, but bored men were irritable men, though there were flashes of appreciative good-humor to lighten the tasks.

But, her hands were shaking, and her responses were but vague to the remaining patients.

An hour ago, the shout of the watchmen had gone up. The riders had been sighted, the first company back from Badon since victory had been won; according to Sir Bodiver, both king and sorcerer would accompany them.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she knelt beside another pallet to begin the process of changing bandages for the next knight – a nasty angled gash in his lower leg, the reason why this particular man was still off his feet to heal. She couldn't help glancing up toward the barbicon passage, but the courtyard and gateway remained empty.

The queen and Lady Morgana both waited with Sir Bors and Sir Bodiver on the front step of the keep – nowhere near as grand as Camelot's dozen wide steps, but still the appropriate place for the ladies to meet the returning warriors. Although, she rather appreciated she had something to busy herself with, while she waited, and didn't have to stand looking calm and doing nothing.

"It's looking much better today," Freya assured the soldier she tended, a middle-aged man with close-set eyes and a crooked nose – and an endearingly crooked grin, when he wasn't bored and irritable.

He grimaced at her, unconvinced, as she began to clear the area of comfrey paste and drainage, careful not to catch the stitches he'd arrived with – not Merlin's work, she'd recognized – on her cloth. The ware-stone bumped the inside of her bodice as she leaned forward over her work; her heart seemed to do the same thing.

Twenty-four hours it had been, since Bodiver had rushed into Lady Morgana's sitting-room to assure them, the connection of communication was remade. And to pass messages. Although, the day of silence had not been explained. And, Merlin's message to her – given through Sir Bodiver of course and therefore not as personal as it might otherwise have been – seemed… short. Weary. Just… _off_.

"I think," she said, distracting herself again, "it might be a good idea to leave this open to the air for a few hours. Be careful not to bump it, or let anything touch it, and we'll wrap it again for the night."

"My lady," he said, in a tone of uncharacteristic excitement.

She looked up to see his gaze directed over her shoulder. The sound of hooves on courtyard flag-stones caught her ears as she turned – to see the first two riders emerge from the barbicon passage.

In that moment, she was reminded strongly of how she'd seen the pair, first. Both dressed more casually than their armored companions, both so dissimilar in looks; the noble horseman and his bodyguard, the sorcerer and his leader. Their connection blazed more strongly than ever.

She found herself blinking tears from her eyes to watch the happy confusion for a quiet, enjoyable moment. Knowing he was back, seeing him relatively unharmed, she was willing to put off her own reunion for a few more moments of delicious anticipation, delaying the bliss to sweeten it.

Arthur dismounted first, and met his wife in a fiercely uninhibited embrace, picking her right off her feet and even swinging her a bit. Freya smiled, knowing Gwen had been a bit troubled when her husband departed, by something more personal than the imminent dangers of battle.

Lancelot embraced his wife as well, more carefully because of her rounded figure; Bodiver greeted Merlin, who dismounted unhurriedly and almost cautiously. Bors was at Arthur's elbow to receive a whack of commendation on the upper arm, and Percival and Gwaine were visible in the train of newcomers, surrounded by their welcoming comrades.

Then Gwen was turning to reach up to Merlin for the thank-you hug that was as traditional for them as the queen's farewell wish for the sorcerer to protect the king. Which left Arthur facing Morgana – and Lancelot, just behind her. Freya saw that the _contrition_ which had replaced _deceit_ the very day these men had left Stawell, remained firm, as the half-siblings spoke. Arthur allowed, accepted, returned Morgana's embrace; she appeared to be shaking, slightly. Crying, Freya thought, not without sympathy.

The group was blocked momentarily as the horses were led away, and then Freya saw Gwen pointing her out, to Merlin. She couldn't help smiling through the sudden upwelling of joy that felt just a tiny bit hysterical, even as her eyes misted over again.

"Go to him," her patient urged, with wry amusement, and she looked down at the cloth in her hand, almost finished cleaning the wound. "I'll finish this."

She stood, a bit unsteadily, as Merlin began to cross the courtyard with his long rangy – familiar, beloved – stride. _People are watching_, she reminded herself – noticed bruising on his face under the brilliant grin and sparkle – she didn't care.

Reaching for him, she clung and closed her eyes as he scooped her up, arms wrapped around her ribs, hers around his neck. He was trembling – as she was – she inhaled against the skin of his neck and gave a happy sob.

"Missed you," he said, his voice muffled by her shoulder.

"Me, too," she managed, and for a moment more they simply held tightly to one another.

Then he sighed and let her down the few inches to her tiptoes again. Without releasing him, she rearranged her arms for a more habitual embrace around his middle, one hand up over his shoulder-blade, as he moved her hair to nuzzle into her neck, breathe her scent, and exhale.

"There's blood on your shirt," she observed. An effort had been made to wash and mend it, she thought, it was dry now.

"And a scar underneath," he told her. "But just a little one – and I'm fine now."

Freya resolved to have a look for herself later. "What happened?"

"Morgause," he said simply.

She was sure it was much more complicated than that, but she knew his tendency to keep worrying details to himself. If he didn't want her to know, she would respect his desire to protect her from that knowledge.

"And?" she said, leaning back to look at his face. Yes, bruises – also a scrape, and a thinner cut that went into his hair above his right ear.

"And, we won."

His lips quirked, and she gave in to the impulse immediately, pressing her body against his and sliding her hand around the back of his neck to pull him down, willingly, for a kiss. She could feel his exhaustion, and relief. She could feel the catch of his breath and guessed that he wore bruises on more than just his face. But he was here, and all right. Each part of him firmly in place – confidence, loyalty, magic.

"So, you're okay?" she couldn't help asking, just to be sure.

"Yes, thanks to Gilli," he said lightly. "And Arthur, and Gwaine…" And this time, it was him moving down to her lips for a slower, softer kiss.

"Let a man breathe, Freya," she heard her brother's voice, tired-amused. "Or, should I say, let my sister breathe a bit, Merlin?"

Her husband retreated only fractionally, keeping her close and tight, his forehead to hers and their noses touching, breathing in tandem a moment longer.

She reached out blindly, grabbing her brother one-handed, yanking him close enough for a sideways hug, next to Merlin – who simply freed his arm to hang over Gwaine's shoulders, too. Freya stood for another moment, blissfully, unutterably happy. Her family, safe and with her. Then she pulled back to meet her brother's dark eyes.

"Thank you," she said, and her voice trembled.

He leaned to kiss her forehead. "I do what I can…" roguish smirk – "and right now, I probably ought to do what I can about the men who rode back with us."

Gwaine gave Merlin's back a carefully friendly slap, and moved back toward the train of men still filtering into the courtyard. Freya turned back to search the blue depths of her husband's gaze, finding no trace of the heavy pain or lingering disquiet he'd carried since receiving the prophecy.

"So you avoided Camlann," she said to him, and it was partly a question.

"Yes. Not forever, of course, but…" He held her gaze. "You were right. About fearing the future, and then looking back to realize, it turned out differently than expected. Prophecy… can be a thing to trust."

He took her in his arms again, more gently and calmly, and she relished the feel of his body, warm and strong and sure.

And deep within her, she felt the fluttering movement of their son.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen lounged in her high-back chair, fully contented as she hadn't been for weeks.

It was a good feast; Morgana was an excellent hostess. But Gwen would have been satisfied with bread and water and a seat on the ground, if she could sit just so.

Leaning sideways on the right arm of her chair, as Arthur beside her leaned on his left. Her elbow tucked beneath his, their forearms and hands together, fingers intertwined. Her head on his shoulder, his cheek resting on her hair.

And not only that, but the rest of their friends safe and victorious, if not here.

"I'm thinking of sending him on to Camelot with the news," Arthur muttered in her hair.

She didn't have to ask, who. Down the table, Gwaine had evidently just made some outrageous statement, judging from the reaction of those around him – Percival's eyebrows reaching for the light bristle of hair above his square face, split by a wide challenging grin. Gwen couldn't help smiling, though the men weren't paying attention to them, at the head of the table; she suspected Arthur's choice of messenger had as much to do with the condition of the knight's wife, as any supposed disinclination for Gwaine's boisterous company. Enid would appreciate having him home, she knew.

Without moving, she transferred her gaze to the couple on Arthur's other side. Sitting much as they were, after the meal was mostly finished, Freya was tucked between Merlin's arm and his body, his hand resting gently against the side of her belly. Deliberately, and Gwen smiled at that, too.

"He's going to be all right, isn't he?" she murmured, knowing only Arthur would hear her, and understand who she meant. Because Merlin looked exhausted beneath his bruises and scrapes, though much better now that he was clean, shaved and dressed for the more formal dinner.

Arthur nuzzled into her hair a bit. "Gwaine said, a creature of dark magic was used to try to drain Merlin's."

_Was used_ – Gwen appreciated that her husband hadn't specified, _by Morgause_, or even _the witch_, not with his sister just there on Gwen's other side, though she couldn't overhear their low voices in the noise of the dining hall. "Was that why Bodiver couldn't reach him?"

He made a noise of assent. "I take it he transferred his magic to me for a few hours in self-defense, then regained it when we – were together again."

Gwen hummed in sympathy; she didn't envy Freya the task in front of her, though probably the younger woman didn't mind at all. "Pretty rough process?"

Arthur didn't answer immediately, but inhaled deeply, and let it out slowly. "That's war, Guinevere."

At that moment, the door at the end of Stawell's dining hall flew open so hard it banged into the wall, and a high-pitched shriek filled the empty doorway.

Gwen – and Freya too, she saw, as her attention was still focused to her right – bolted upright on instinct. To see Morgana and Lancelot's small daughter fighting to enter the room, presumably with a nursemaid or other servant trying to hold her back, trying to avoid being seen themselves in the doorway.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Morgana exclaimed, tossing her napkin from her lap to the tabletop, rising to address the issue.

Lancelot drummed his fingers on the edge of the table, flicked a glance at Arthur and Gwen. "Excuse me."

Arthur made a gesture of amusement and understanding, and the knight strode after his wife to the door; it seemed to Gwen that there was more determination than deference in his bearing, somehow. He reached his wife and daughter just as Morgana struggled upright with the little girl squirming against the bulge of a younger brother or sister, and took Nenna firmly from his wife, leading them both out of sight in the corridor.

"You know, it's probably partly our fault," Merlin remarked to Arthur.

"What is," Arthur replied, more lazy than resistant to the charge.

"Keeping the truth from her," Merlin answered, looking back toward the open doorway. "We didn't tell her what Morgause tried with the crystal she brought to Camelot, or with the sleeping spell."

Gwen caught Freya's glance of confusion, and gave her a little frown and shake of her head – she didn't know those stories, either.

"And after the thing with the Knights of Medhir," Arthur said, shifting in his seat, "I suppose it was easier for Morgana to blame my uncle, and excuse her sister."

"None of us are perfect," Gwen said softly, after a pause. And didn't meet her husband's eyes. "Everyone makes mistakes. We can only – learn from them. And forgive."

Arthur turned to kiss her hair at the edge of her forehead. "We have the rest of our lives to learn that lesson."

Merlin reached forward for his goblet of wine on the tabletop to raise to his king in a toast, including her in his smile. "And heaven send that it is a very long lifetime, indeed."

…..*…..

**A/N: Fin. Except for the epilogue, which will explore and explain the fulfillment of the prophecy of Camlann, because some reviewers have already asked about that. But if you prefer an ending that isn't really an **_**ending**_**, you can stop here…**

**In other news, by the poll on my profile it looks like my next story will be Refined by Fire, a mid-season 3 in-canon reveal. So that'll be maybe about a week before I put up chapter 1 for that… **

**Thanks everyone who read/reviewed/and-so-on this story/arc! I'm glad you enjoyed, and I appreciate those who took the time to express that!**


	21. Times and Seasons

**Epilogue: Times and Seasons**

I love spring. The smells, the sounds, the feel of the air - there was so much life all around. A miracle, every year, when the death of winter gives way to the stronger subtler power of spring.

I love walks, too. In the wild of the forest, hearing the sounds of nature and not people, the damp moss underfoot and the lively, tuneful creatures that make their homes in and around the trees.

And stories. Uncle's stories, especially, so many and so fascinating.

Because my life so far, as a girl with blood ties to royalty, has been uneventfully sedate. Interesting, almost always, especially my studies in magic. But never adventurous.

Until today.

It made me not a little sad to realize, the telling of this story would be up to me. And one that Uncle Merlin would never hear.

I stepped closer to him as I lifted my skirt to clear a fallen branch – there was no path here, and I could no longer see the red cloaks of my patient escort when I looked over my shoulder, but it wasn't apprehension that made me reach for his hand at the end of the full sleeve of his robe.

His fingers closed around mine, wrinkled and bony but still long and fine and strong. The lines around his deep blue eyes deepened when he smiled at me.

But the shadow remained in the depths. A shadow that had been there for almost two years now, when his hair and beard, now snowy, first began to fade from black.

"Tell me a story," I said impulsively, smiling to think it reminded him, as me, of my early childhood. Finding him in his study, the inner room of the library in Camelot, the white citadel where I'd grown up.

And he'd set aside his books and scrolls and quill – and never ask me if I was meant to be busy at other tasks – and together we would plunge into one of his stories. Of one of the knights, most of whom I knew as middle-aged gray-beards, some of whom had been my parents' generation – Sir Gareth and my mother's brother Sir Galahad, most notably. I vaguely recalled glimpses of them in tournaments, or returning from patrol, or riding out to one of the two battles I could recall personally.

Or of King Arthur. My father's father. Those were my favorite, because Uncle was in almost all of them, too, though his version of his participation left much to my youthful imagination.

"Tell me a story, Uncle Merlin," I said again. To prolong and sweeten our time together. Our last day. And I knew he would understand – and appreciate my effort and desire to fill the silence.

"You know all my stories, little one," he said, though I was almost as tall as he. Because his shoulders had begun to bow, gradually, two years ago also. "Better than I do, almost – I heard you telling of Dinas Emrys to your own students last week."

I turned, as we walked, to see the high brow of the hill that had given Uncle his second name, on our right, through the trees. A glimpse of old, broken wall like a royal circlet at the top, a slice of open cave nearer the bottom.

A cave, I knew, few could actually see. Decades ago, it had been sealed from common view by magic, the resting place for the bones of the great dragon, Kilgarrah.

"It is one of the children's favorites," I told my uncle cheerfully.

Uncle, I say, though really he isn't. He is my Uncle Lucan's father-in-law. King Lucan's father-in-law. But my father, Prince Brian, was one of his first students, and always called him uncle, so I have done.

He stopped walking, his gaze distant, and sighed in a privately melancholy sort of way. "The children," he repeated. "Soon all they will have are stories, and none will remember. The Isle of the Blessed is vacant, and the druids live in villages that will become towns, as more of the foreign people arrive with their languages and customs and stories… do you suppose he will be forgotten entirely?"

"Uncle Merlin," I said, maybe even daring to scold him a bit, gently. And maybe that was to prevent the sting of the lump that rose in my throat from sparking tears to my eyes to embarrass us both and maybe even ruin this last day, this glorious day of new spring. "Uncle Merlin, no one will ever forget King Arthur. Even if it is only stories to the children, they will remember."

He pulled his gaze back from unshared visions in the air, and brushed the backs of his fingers down my cheek, giving me a rueful smile. "Forgive me, I'm old," he sighed, but his eyes twinkled again. "A story, then? Which one?"

"Well…" I thought.

Dinas Emrys was my favorite, the first journey of my favorite uncle and his best friend, the greatest king of Camelot – even Uncle Lucan said so – and the most powerful sorcerer in the world. Even Grandmama Morgana said so. I wanted a story of glory and hope and triumph – but today was our last day. Which made me think of _their_ last day, and wonder if there was any more glory and hope and triumph to be had. Surely… surely it wasn't _over_.

"Will you tell me of Camlann?" I said.

"Which time?" Under the wisps of his white beard, his lips quirked humorously. "There were three battles there, you know."

I took an inaudible breath of relief. I didn't want to hurt him, after all, though it occurred to me that perhaps he was – and maybe had been for some time - looking forward to this day as a relief. Maybe even before he asked me to take part. And keep the secret.

"How old are you, now?" he continued, as we continued our stroll northward through the spring woods.

"Twenty years this summer." I knew I sounded proud, and didn't try to hide my smile when he glanced at me.

"So you remember the second time we were at Camlann, ten years ago."

"I remember… everyone coming home. It was like a holiday, feasting and laughing, jokes and stories."

"I don't, really," he mused. "I think I was drunk for a week."

"Grandmama said that was Sir Gwaine's fault," I commented. He smiled, but it was a bit sad; Sir Gwaine had not lived through the past winter. I hadn't known him well – I knew his son, Sir Gareth, a bit better.

"Three times we fought at Camlann," he said. "Here – let's stop here and sit. I can sense the grove – can you? – and I'd not take a tale of battle and death into the circle." I sat on the low, thick trunk of a fallen tree, while he adjusted his robe to straddle it next to me. "Arthur was fond of claiming invincibility, everywhere but Camlann. And we did our best to keep that prophecy secret… I still don't know for sure how that rumor got out."

"Mama said Uncle Mordred –" I began, but swallowed my words at a warning flash from his eyes.

"That was never proved," he chided me gently, before switching his gaze back to the far away and long ago. "After the battle of Badon Hill, it was twenty years til the Saxons threatened Camelot again. A full generation, it may be. Your grandmamma and King Arthur never did agree on how to handle the continuing encroachment. Morgana was of the opinion – and possibly supported by her visions, you may know that better than I – that it was inevitable, the foreign people assimilating and changing Camelot. Arthur was determined to prevent it by any means possible."

He sighed. "The first time we found ourselves at Camlann, Viv, you weren't yet a year old. Your father quarreled with his brother – Lucan thought your father should stay home, and safe, the next heir to Arthur's throne since your cousin the crown prince hadn't been born yet. And Brian was determined to make sure that Lucan returned safely to his inheritance, using his knowledge of magic and medicine to that end. Ah, well."

I thought, not for the first time, that my father and his brother the king were very like my grandfather and his Merlin. "So King Arthur was already a grandfather, when you went to Camlann the first time," I said. "But you weren't, yet."

He nodded pensively, and gave his head shake. "We were both prepared, then, for the prophecy finally coming true."

I knew that story, a bit. "But there was no high priestess, then."

"No… And when the victory was won, and we departed, I was convinced I was dreaming, and would wake to find we had the battle yet to fight." Another smile flitted across his face.

"Tell me of the third battle?" I said, quietly.

"There were Saxons there. By then they'd made treaties with Mercia for trade, and coastal towns to settle in. Of Arthur's senior knights, Leon and Tristan had both passed already – your great-uncle Elyan as well. Leon's twin sons took separate sides; they never did agree on much, but… it was a terrible tragedy that neither recognized the other, in the battle."

Which explained that one line of the prophecy I'd memorized, by now, _brother will slaughter brother, friend will murder friend…_

"Your uncle Mordred was there. He swore to me, after, it was his intent to sue for peace, try to mediate between Camelot and Saxon Mercia… Both your grandparents, also, your uncle Galahad, of course. Your grandmama Morgana had been High Priestess not yet a year – we didn't know at the time that the structure of the isle would crumble at her death, and she would be the last priestess mentioned in the prophecy. Your grandfather went, determined to protect her, and Arthur broke the scabbard I had made for him at the battle of Badon, giving Lancelot all but the mount, for his protection.

"Bors died there, and Kay. Percival afterward, never really recovered from a deep chest wound. I think he… rather decided that his job was finished, after Arthur…

"It was my idea." He smiled at me, even as a single tear dripped from shining eyes. "By then it seemed everyone knew the rumor, that King Arthur was to die at Camlann. It was my idea to disguise him. And in the thick of it, I lost sight of him. In the thick of it, your uncle Mordred didn't realize who he was until too late.

"We were all too late. Relinor was flying with Aithusa, and your grandmamma – you've never seen her so fierce. I've never seen her control lightning, before that or since. To see the battle _won_, one more time.

"He wasn't in pain, my Arthur, but the wound… simply wouldn't heal. He told me, it was his time, and he was ready. The mount of the scabbard… kept him alive, two days. So we were able to bring him home, and everyone said goodbye."

That, I remembered. King Arthur my grandfather, so still and colorless – skin, hair, and eyes all pale. But still he had a smile for me.

I said, "He told me not to cry."

"I think he told everyone that," Uncle said. "I think we all disobeyed him, too." The fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile. "Your grandmother today remembers him as he was, doesn't she?"

"Grandmama Gwen tells me stories of Lionys," I said. "It makes her happy."

The wrinkles deepened. "Ah. Yes, the romance as well as the adventure."

"Both are important," I argued gently.

"Perhaps more so when you are young than when you are old."

"Tell me of Avalon, then," I said.

"Arthur and I had talked of his ancestors, the Pendragons and the du Bois, and where Arthur would rest. Of Kilgarrah, whose bones are buried here. When my own wife died…" He glanced at me, and I could see the question he didn't dare ask.

"I remember," I said softly, to reassure him. Lady Freya, always so obviously in love with her husband, sweet and smart and strong and tiny; she always seemed as though as stiff wind would blow her away. And then one year, several ago now, one had. The wife of Camelot's court physician was gone before many even knew she was ill.

"When my Freya died, I brought her to the lake of Avalon. Floated her funeral pyre out into the mist. Arthur was with me – he was the only other one to see the lake, then, not even your aunt Queen Marya, or our son Relinor, was there. And just the same, after Camlann, I took Arthur to the lake, alone but for Sir Bodiver – who threw your grandfather's sword into the water, that none other might wield it again."

I imagined it. My grandfather's body, dressed in his armor and crimson cloak and his crown, as it had been when the procession left the citadel – perhaps on a bed of ferns in an old wooden boat, floating into the mist.

"It is almost noon, Vivi," Uncle Merlin hinted. His knees creaked as he pushed himself up, and courteously took my hand.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked him for maybe the dozenth time, as we resumed our slow journey. "There will be so many to miss you. Can you not wait to join my grandfather in a natural death?"

"It was here where I met him," Uncle answered, without really answering. "And he who gave me my name, did you know that? Do you know what Emrys means?"

I did. Merlin the Immortal – and a suspicion struck. "Uncle, before we left Camelot, did you – you looked into the crystal, didn't you?"

"I wouldn't recommend it," he told me, half-serious.

"What did you see?" The question was out before I could bite my tongue.

He stopped for a moment and took a deep breath of fresh spring air. "The future," he said, lightly. "Here we are."

I felt it, the grove. It was as if the whole world had taken a deep eager breath to hold in anticipation. I felt the glory and hope and triumph, here. And there, the mouth of the bell-cave of the story, unobtrusively hidden to those without the eyes to see. To my knowledge, none had ventured there after the quest of the becoming prince and the dragonlords' key.

"The thing about prophecy," he said, stepping to what my sense of magic instinctively defined as the middle of the grove. "There is often more than one application of fulfillment. Do you understand?"

"I'm not sure I do," I admitted, following him.

He pushed up the sleeves of his blue robe, which had the effect of baring his remarkable druid-tattoos, though he took no notice, holding out his arms as if to embrace the serenity of the grove. "Be wary of Dinas Emrys hill, the ancient magic sleeping still," he murmured. "The mountain high, the giant deep, guard on golden treasure keep… Old and young, beyond the wall, unlock the future with one call. Light of fire, and light of sun, both become the chosen one."

I shivered, involuntarily. Ancient magic sleeping still… And when he said _golden treasure_, I could not help thinking of the color of performed magic, gleaming in his eyes. _Old and young_… and I wondered how many years would pass for him, under this enchantment. Exactly how old he would be, when the future was unlocked again. And who would be calling him, then?

"Keep the hope, await the king… Once and future, peace will bring."

"What will happen with Relinor, and Aithusa?" I blurted. I could feel noon approaching, the appointed time for our spell-work, and clutched a bit desperately at these moments.

"In the waking dream, I was connected," he murmured whimsically. "Though without the sensation of the passing of time."

"So you'll be able to see them, talk to them?" I said. "Will Relinor become a full dragonlord, then?"

"Not exactly. I've spoken to them both, never fear. Their bond is strong, without the control that will never pass to another, as is both their preference. But there will still be a link, for me." His smile spread, wide and excited as a boy's, the way I hadn't seen it for years. Since before Camlann. "I'm not really sure – I've never done this before. But come now, Vivian, it's time."

I took a breath to steady and calm myself, and began to speak the words of the enchantment, holding out my own hands as if to lift the magic of life from the ground, from the grove, from the sky and sun overhead. I heard his voice whisper them along with me, the power increasing exponentially, overwhelmingly.

"Go, now. And do not grieve for those whose season is past, whose sun is set. My life was full, and I am satisfied."

I turned, blindly, to pace toward the edge of the grove, the words of the enchantment rolling slowly, inexorably, to a finish. I didn't turn again, knowing I wouldn't see him again. Though I did wonder, if he would choose to rest in the bell-cave, or if there would be one more old oak in the center of the grove, reaching for the light of the sun.

_Keep the hope, await the king – once and future peace will bring…_

Once – and future. What had he seen of that future, to prompt him to this choice? Uncle Merlin would remain caught in a single moment of high noon - awaiting his king? As all time and no time would pass, for him…

Glory and hope and triumph – I could still feel them.

I reached the edge of the grove, and passed beyond. I felt tears on my face, and a smile.

"What," I said aloud, "will I tell them?" Everyone who had loved Merlin, who would wonder at his passing – if he had left Camelot, if he had died…

I heard a voice in my mind, and it sounded very like him. "Tell them a story…"

…..*…..

**A/N: And, that's a wrap! You can't even imagine the size of the smile on my face right now. Wow, what a journey this has been.**

**Hope you liked the conclusion. How Camlann happened, how it didn't happen. Morgana's fate, and Mordred Arthur's nephew. Other bits and pieces of the legend, here, if you can recognize them, and even the story of Merlin and Vivian revisited.**

**Thank you again to everyone who showed support for my creativity!**

**PS, Sorry some have mentioned a bit of confusion about the future generations. So this is how it went: Lucan m. Marya, Brian m. Nenna and had Vivian. Merlin&amp;Freya's son was Relinor, Lancelot&amp;Morgana had two sons after Nenna, Galahad and Mordred (the one to kill Arthur, but unknowingly). That sort of thing is hard to make clear sometimes in the flow of fiction without stopping for a family tutorial… **


	22. Post-Epilogue: The Prince's Treasure

A/N: This is for a. narnian, who didn't want me to leave Arthur dead and Merlin waiting, even if it was in a peaceful meditative sleep, for this series. And who suggested the place for Arthur's 'return'…

**The Prince's Treasure**, a post-epilogue

Drunk and lost, between one stage of life and the unknown next, he wandered in the dark, alone.

He climbed. He fell. He slept.

And dreamed.

First, of the familiar – faces, voices, places – as if he stood in a small central courtyard of a citadel of white stone, and turned in a slow circle to see in at the windows. A glimpse, a suggestion of movement – recognition barely grasped before the scene swung round.

Or was it only him who turned, a few more degrees.

Then the familiar faded. The stone itself faded. He kept turning and the images kept changing, a spiral of change though his feet seemed to stay on the ground; it rose into a great hill and lifted him above all he could see and showed him further than he imagined.

He saw industry and invasion, revolution and regression, victory and defeat, wondrous and ordinary. Youth to age and back again. Great structures struggled into being with the time and effort of a woman carrying a child to term – destroyed by fire or earthquake in one violent moment that as also the birth of something new. He saw history as it happened.

He could have rejoiced, he could have wept, except that change was constant, and _fast_ to his perception. There was no time for specific emotion; there was _all_ time.

At dawn he woke, under the wide wheeling sky and a great finger of stone like an aerial sundial.

The feeling of dew-dampness on his clothing, the stiffness of muscle and bone that came from resting for hours on a hard surface, was both alien and familiar. He struggled upward to sitting, focusing first on his head, throbbing full of confusing images that whirled and faded. The visions he'd seen so clearly, retreating to slumber like a wave from the shore, left a glistening film over memory and perception, at once obscuring and clarifying. True, but impossible.

"Bloody damn hangover," he groaned.

As the sound of his voice dissipated into the air – the open air – he moved his hands away from his face enough to see grass beside and between his jean-clad legs and bent knees. So he'd slept outdoors, and on the ground. That was a first. _Lovely_.

Grunting his irritation at himself and the situation, he rubbed his face gingerly. Then, when that felt good and eased the ache, he massaged the rest of his skull with his fingertips, up and over.

_I'm supposed to be finding myself, not losing my mind._

A solitary holiday, post-graduation. Before youthful freedom would be submerged in the responsibilities of gainful employment. Somewhere and at something, he was suppose to figure out – two weeks that would decide the rest of his life. And for months maybe years _that_ had felt like a weathervane in a hurricane, spinning every way and stopping at none.

The glow of morning rose on his right, touching his face with warmth that coaxed him beyond himself, and for the first time he noticed the silence. Hardly ever was there true silence in his life. Not surrounded by people, traffic, technology.

He could only hear his breathing, and lifted his head to find himself sitting at the top of a hill he didn't remember climbing. Below was a vast sea of mist, here and there showing rooftops or lower hills, stretching to a far horizon. Beginning to yield to the cleansing rays of the rising sun.

The spinning sensation of life itself – and his in particular - had stopped as well. He didn't know what that meant, but the stillness was peace rather than urgency.

Curiosity and the desire to place himself in the world, as a precursor to movement and meaning, had him looking around. Behind him, that fanciful upside-down sundial proved to be more tangible than dream – a tall gray tower of carven stone; a sentinel, watching over him more than the land, he felt. The hillside below separated into uneven terracing – which some claimed was a ritual maze symbolizing the soul's journey through life, death, and rebirth. Or so he had read in the guidebook yesterday, dismissing it as tourist's twaddle.

But, a quick corroborating glance round, back up, and he knew for certain where he was.

"Bloody hell," he told himself, scrambling up undignified, damp and bracken marring his jeans and canvas jacket. "Get drunk one night and climb the bloody _Tor_?" He thought he'd gotten drunk to _avoid_ climbing the Tor.

No one answered. The sun rose, fractionally and inexorably. St. Michael's tower watched to see what Arthur would do.

He couldn't remember believing in much besides what could be proven by his five senses. What he could see and touch, what he could _do_. He didn't believe in ley lines or the primordial dragon that represented the Mother. Not in namesake archangels or devils or gods of the old religion. He never believed in fate or faeries; he still didn't.

But in any case, this morning he'd awoken facing north, and it was as good a sign as any, where to go from here.

Arthur brushed himself off, and started down the hill.

He was hungry by the time he reached the bottom. After fueling his car and himself, he drove west to the M5, then headed north – cutting back east eventually to leave the M5, and take the long bridge across the Severn toward Newport. As he drove he kept his eyes resolutely on the road, his mind on the traffic – it was the right direction, he felt; though perhaps inspiration had come from without, it was also still his choice, and only his choice. But to gaze at and dwell on the scenery, the smooth and serene, the abrupt and majestic, would be to invite that unsettling familiarity… that he wanted to figure out, just… not distract him, while driving.

But at Abergavenny he was forced to stop again for petrol. Gazing north into the Black Mountains – impossibly high peaks dusted with snow, their shoulders layered comfortably to his vision, and yet he couldn't help but think how hard it must have been to navigate such, before the days of motor vehicles and roadways. And wondering why thinking wanted to change into remembering, why that name was _all wrong_. Should be White Mountains, shouldn't it, with all that snow?

Then again, why did a café a short way off the A449 named the _Rising Sun_ call to him, sing to him with vague impressions of laughter and camaraderie his sterile, privileged life had excluded, even though it was already past noon and nearly deserted.

He sat by a window overlooking the beer garden and tried to recall the images of his dreams more clearly. High damp moor-hills, deep ancient forests. A white unicorn… a white castle… a white staff… Just a stray flash of sunlight.

It was there, waiting to pay for his chicken curry, that he picked up a glossy brochure from a front-entrance rack.

_There Be Dragons Here_ was written across the top. _Dragons_ caught his attention first, and the next line – only visible when his fingertips teased the outermost copy of the advertisement an inch upward – _Dinas Emrys._

Why did that ring through his very being with exquisite clarity and the ache of longing?

"You on holiday, then, love?" the girl behind the counter asked as he paid over what was owed. "Proper tourist-type stuff, or are you really interested in history?"

"A bit of both this week, I think," he said bemusedly, distractedly. Reading.

… _Setting of the famous exchange of the Warlord Vortigern and the youthful Merlin…_

Merlin.

He shivered, and accepted his change without thanks and without checking the amount.

"D'you know there's a legend about that place, too," the girl volunteered, leaning her elbow on the counter between them, pointing at the folded page in Arthur's hand. "Supposedly Merlin buried treasure there, and it can only be found by someone golden-haired and blue-eyed." He gazed at her, astonished, and she dimpled. "I suppose you have a better chance than most of finding it, eh, love? A bit of advice – if you feel and hear an earthquake, better run. But if you hear a bell and see a cave – bring me back a piece of gold or a jeweled trinket, won't you?"

_Hair of sun and gaze of sky, the bell will ring to let him by…_

He interrupted her query, "Are you all right?" with a mumble meant to reassure, and escaped again to his car, where he sat in silence.

And read to the last folded page, where he was brightly and commercially informed, a nearby field had once boasted a thick grove of oak trees, a stone-marked burial ground of wise men, and a white thorn tree that sheltered the graves with its blossoms. _Cell-y-Dewiniaid_. The Grove of the Magicians.

_I do believe in spooks_, he thought randomly. _I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks…_

North into Snowdonia National Park. West a bit, then north again to Beddgelert, which was little more than a cluster of tourist hotels.

He parked and hesitated, listening to the engine click as it cooled.

Straight ahead and all around – buildings, roads, signs. The present, and always an impatient one. But if he lifted his eyes – hilltops and trees, smooth and craggy, lush and struggling. The world of the _past_ – a very long past. Slow and timeless and patient, and he felt like it waited for _him_.

Just as the Tor had _waited_ for him – and he'd ducked into a pub instead. A small and embarrassing and ineffectual delay, after all…

This trip was about more than just finishing coursework, before he found a job. Started a career. It was more than just, _what do you want to be when you grow up._

Who am I. A question everyone had to answer, sooner or later. Simple or complex. He felt it, now, like he'd been hiding from really answering, letting others around him, define him.

What do I want? What do I want to accomplish? Who do I want to be? What do I believe?

The answer was not in yet another counselor's office, yet another aptitude test. It wasn't in more research, more job fairs, more conversations. He wouldn't find it in the open streets and underground network of the city that had been his home.

It was inside. Long buried, long hidden, long denied or believed absent entirely. But in a place like this, Arthur rather fancied, a person might find the clarity and the courage to really look within.

He stood up out of his car, locked and closed the door. And instead of heading for either of the hotels flanking the car park, he headed for the road into the hills.

And then, after an hour's trek, he left the road.

With every step, he felt freer – and yet, more responsible at the same time. Following no one's path but his own. Breathing air that was _new_, not recycled. Curiously enough, there was no fear, though he'd never been here and the sun was not far from setting. Raised a city boy, but somehow he felt sure of his ability to fend for himself out here.

It was almost as if he'd done this before. Leaving home on a quest to find meaning and form purpose, to test his own mettle.

Quest. Odd word, that. And invigorating.

He stopped when he saw Dinas Emrys. Rising above a small valley, the sound of a small river trickling through. Glaslyn, he remembered from the brochure, though it hadn't had a name when he'd been here last.

Arthur shook his head, looking down to place his feet in the damp earth and bracken. Odd thought – he'd never been here before.

He would have remembered.

Why then did he think of the smell and crackle of fire? Why did his hand curl as if around the hilt of a sword? Why could he close his eyes and see the hilltop as if far below him as he flew on the back of a –

No. Clarity and answers, not fantasy and more questions.

He followed his feet, wondering if he should climb to the top – as he'd evidently done in Glastonbury, though he didn't remember that clearly – only just to come down again. He wondered if he had the daylight left… probably not.

And in any case, he could not shake the feeling that he'd already done both. Up the hill, and down. Maybe more than once.

He started to wonder if he believed in second chances. If a soul might be allowed to remember a previous lifetime, or if it would be too confusing, existentially. He started to wonder about his dreams, the night before, as he circled the hill to the west and north… and stopped.

Perhaps the fields, bordered with resurrected rock, were indistinguishable one from the next. Perhaps the stones marking the graves of the wise men were crumbling among them. Perhaps the oaks were long since felled, the white thorn blossoms scattered. But he knew.

This was the field, this the grove. There to the side, where he could throw a stone – only to see it disappear into an invisible cave – the side of the hill.

He was glad he was alone. He didn't need his school friends jeering at the shivery chill ascending his spine, trivializing and mocking the – _sacred_ feel of the place.

Past meets present. Present _remembers_… like the wash of the next wave, filling in the holes and smoothing the wrinkles.

He was sorry to be alone. Perhaps if he had a companion, the hair would not be rising on his neck and forearms as his ears strained involuntarily for the sound of a bell… What if it rang?

What if it didn't? Slowly he stepped forward.

_The thing about prophecy is… it's rarely understood until after its fulfillment. I should have told you, but… I thought you might not come_…

His heart was pounding. Around him, the entire world waited and watched.

Would he turn his back in retreat? Go home, weigh job offers, accept the most lucrative one? Earn money so he could spend it, spend it so he'd have to keep earning it? Never chance being extraordinary, never risk being heroic?

Or… accept that he didn't have answers, or control. Embrace fate, or destiny, let it take him where it would…

_Believe_.

He heard no bells. The very air held its breath.

"Open sesame," he said. And laughed out loud at himself. Wrong part of the world for that legend.

Well, what would be the magic words for this part of the world?

One came to mind. So swiftly and surely and powerfully it shook him, and once again he stood on the edge of decision. Did he have the courage to try? What if it worked what if it _didn't_…

He closed his eyes and opened his mouth and spoke clearly, if not loudly. "Merlin."

In the waiting stillness, his breathing was loud, and the wind very soft. He opened his eyes and turned his head just slightly to watch the last sliver of sun disappear – the high clouds in the sky reflecting a riot of color, but no warmth.

In an agony of despair – _who am I I am alone_ – he whispered again.

"_Merlin_."

The light began to fade.

Behind him, pebbles rattled softly on stone, and he spun, hair again rising to think of the fey unknown that might surround him, at this place and in the moment of twilight.

A young man approached him – no one, and then suddenly, someone. He was dressed simply, in dark trousers and a white shirt – nondescript, but subtly _wrong_. Not a t-shirt, not an Oxford or a button-down… he wore a necklace, cord and charm that sparked in Arthur's memory. He grinned as he took each step, angular face lighting with a fierce joy that seemed to pull the sun back up over the horizon for a moment that staggered Arthur –

He knew him. Better than he knew himself, these days. But his mouth was dry he couldn't speak, he couldn't say that name. Though he had just, twice.

"Arthur," the young man said, managing a tone at once respectful and irreverent with the one word, and Arthur almost sobbed. Almost laughed. He was _known_, also. "I told you I'd see you again, didn't I?"

Soft comfort of his own bed, distant pain of a slowly-fatal wound, his hand in the hand of someone who sat weeping quietly, just beyond his vision. This face, bearded and lined with decades of faithful service, smiling as he promised, and tears fell anyway.

"This," Arthur said, struggling to control the great elation – a _completion_ \- inside. "Whatever this was, it was not _soon_, Merlin."

Merlin shrugged, yawning, and stretched to ruffle the hair on the back of his head. "The prophecy wasn't specific, you know."

"No, but it was right." Arthur put out a tentative hand. Touched his friend's arm, warm and bony through the sleeve of a homemade shirt centuries old. Pushed it up slightly to see two dark curled points on the inside of the wrist, the beginning of a permanent and fantastic testimony of enduring power.

He didn't see the whole of the tattoo – he probably would later – because Merlin responded immediately and unreservedly, flinging both arms around Arthur and squeezing him so tight it was hard to breathe.

It felt wonderful.

"Missed you," Arthur whispered, and relished the shudder of Merlin laughing.

"Then what took you so long to wake up?"

"Me?" Arthur protested, and Merlin shifted to keep one arm around his shoulders, drawing him back the way he'd come, down toward the distant lights of Beddgelert. "I've only been back for twenty-two years, and you've evidently been Sleeping-_Not_-Beauty for a millennium and a half?"

"That long?" Merlin sounded unconcerned, and didn't drop his arm, though it made them bump awkwardly as they sauntered over the rough ground. "No wonder I'm so stiff… Where are we going, anyway?"

Arthur caught his breath. We. Where are we going.

Anywhere. Everywhere.

"Never mind," Merlin said breezily. "I'll come with you."

…..

**A/N: This is basically just a oneshot, I won't be continuing the boys' adventures, at least in this arc. Some material gathered for this chapter from the Wikipedia page on "Dinas Emrys", and from the site glastonburytor. org. uk.**

**Next up, I'm going to be doing a sequel to "Son of Poseidon", which I'll be uploading to that story (as there are only 9 chapters to that one, and the sequel probably similar in length).**


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